Thank You, Mrs Cannon
by Lydia Hunter
Summary: It's a silly, sorry state of affairs when a man has to go and fall in love with his own wife.
1. Chapter One: The Arrangement

John Cannon stalked out of Don Sebastian's office. He didn't slam the door behind him, because he was basically a gentleman and gentlemen didn't slam doors in other men's houses. Oh, but how he wanted to, though. His face was rigid with frustration and suppressed rage. He passed through the living room of the hacienda without even seeing his brother sitting there, through the front door – again, he didn't slam it no matter how great the temptation – into the front garden. There, he slammed his fist once against the archway where it couldn't do any real damage.

Buck pursed his lips, refilled his glass of wine, and quietly got up and followed him outside. He looked at John for a minute, then pushed his hat back with one finger. "I take it he didn't agree."

"Oh, he agreed all right," growled John.

"Then how come you so het up, John?"

"Because Don Sebastian Montoya is as ornery as a rattlesnake, and just about as trustworthy. And he has the gall to say he has to have some guarantee that _he_ can trust _me._ He's agreed to an alliance between the two ranches, provided I agree to another kind of … _partnership."_ John all but spat the last word. "Either I marry his daughter, or there's no deal."

Buck's face went slack. "You're kiddin' me."

"Nope."

Buck stared at him for a moment, then a grin came over his face and he started to cackle. Then the cackle turned into a knee-slapping guffaw. "Well, don't that just beat all!" he managed.

John just stared at him, stony-faced, hands on hips.

With some obvious difficulty, his brother finally managed to get control of himself. "She is awful pretty, you know, John. Or ain't you noticed?"

John had noticed. Under the circumstances he'd been surprised at himself for noticing, but he'd noticed.

"How old you reckon she is?"

"I don't know," said John. "Younger than I am by a wide margin, I can tell you that much. But old enough that her father and her brother both called her an 'old maid'."

"Probably still young enough to give you a whole passel o'kids, you think about that?"

"That's what Montoya's counting on, apparently."

"Just think, Brother John, you could end up with grandkids older than your own young'uns. Wouldn't Blue-Boy be tickled?"

"That's not the word for it," John said through gritted teeth.

Buck, tiring of his teasing, adopted a more serious expression. "So how you plannin' to get out of this one?"

His brother shook his head. "I'm not sure I can, Buck. Not unless the girl says no."

But, as he learned shortly, the girl _didn't _say no.

The hacienda suddenly seemed to come alive with activity, inside and out. Servants bustled around the two bemused men, shouting imperatives at one another in Spanish. John and Buck sat on an iron bench across from a little fountain and watched the proceedings in amazement.

In a little while Manolito came out of the house to join them. "Buenos Dias, Senor Cannon," he greeted John. "I understand that hopefully by tonight we are to be brothers-in-law. If I had thought of that when I stole your horse…"

"You wouldn't have given it to your sister?" John suggested.

"Ah, no, I definitely would have given him to my sister in that case. Because this, this is too good a joke to miss."

"I don't consider it a joke."

Buck spoke up. "I can kinda see how it might look like a joke. You know, if you're not right in the middle of it."

"Buck!"

"Well, I was just sayin', John."

"Don't say anything." He turned to Manolito. "I suppose it's to your father's credit that having come up with this ridiculous idea, at least he's trying to get everything over and done with as fast as possible. I was afraid he'd try to keep us here for days."

"Si, my father is well known for taking prompt action. Even now, my sister is packing and looking for my mother's wedding dress. Men have been sent to look for a priest who is willing to marry my sister to a non-Catholic without you having to convert – I assume you're not of our faith, Mr. Cannon? No, I didn't think so – and as you can see, preparations are already well underway for a fiesta tonight."

John frowned, said nothing for a few minutes. At last he said, "I take it your sister did, um, consent to this business."

Manolito made a dismissive sound. "Consent? Of course she consented. Why would she not consent? How else is she supposed to get a husband at this point? She's turned down everyone else."

That made no sense at all that John could see. The woman – _Victoria,_ he corrected himself – seemed sensible and intelligent. Why would she turn down every suitor who presented himself and then suddenly quite willingly say yes to a total stranger she'd met well under twenty-four hours earlier? Unless, of course, she'd been coerced as he had.

But when he put the question to her brother, he laughed off the suspicions. "Ah, but the suitors my father found … well, let's just say that you do not look so bad in comparison, my friend. Seriously, do not worry yourself over this. My sister is no doubt leaping for joy at the thought of becoming your wife."

* * *

If the bride didn't actually appear to be "leaping for joy", neither did she appear coerced and unwilling. The smile on her face was natural, and there was warmth in her eyes as she looked at her bridegroom. John breathed a sigh of relief for that, at least.

He remembered little else of the ceremony in the little village church. Couldn't _understand_ most of it, for one thing. It was a strange mish-mash of a lot more Latin than he'd ever learned in school, and the sort of Spanish that really wasn't relevant to running a cattle ranch. He simply followed the cues, spoke when he was told to speak, knelt when he was told to kneel, and stood when he was told to stand.

The fiesta that followed lasted for what seemed like most of the night. Victoria sat beside him and smiled and talked to well-wishers. Hundreds of them, peons and hidalgos alike. John talked to Buck and his new in-laws, and to various men about cattle or Indians. Sometimes the two of them talked to each other; brief, polite exchanges more suited to strangers at a dinner party than two people who'd just pledged the rest of their lives to one another.

Buck got drunk on Don Sebastian's "personal vintage", a wine so appalling that he hadn't been able to leave it alone since the night before.

John had found the wine unpalatable and had consumed as little as possible after the first glass. His brother, on the other hand, wasn't the sort of man who could do that. Buck had apparently found the wine so appalling that he hadn't been able to stop sampling it since dinner the night before. And being Buck, it was inevitable that sooner or later he would say something about it.

"Don Sebastian," he said, "Don Sebastian, this here homemade wine of your'n – well, I can tell you this 'cause we's family now – well, it tastes like some o'them people didn't wash their feet 'fore they got in them vats to squash the grapes. I don't think some of 'em even took their boots off. I won't tell you that they may have stepped in cow pats first, but -"

"Buck!" said his brother warningly.

Don Sebastian's face was flushed with irritation. "You seemed to have had no difficulty drinking much of my wine, however, Senor."

Buck gave his host a bleary-eyed smile and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "Nah, I can drink anything," he assured him. "No matter how bad it tastes."

John felt he'd better intercede before the situation ended with Buck in a Mexican jail and the alliance over with before it had even begun. "Buck," he said, "I think it may be time for you to pour yourself into bed. And I think if you folks will excuse me, I'll say my goodnights as well. We've got a long ride back High Chaparral tomorrow. Victoria." He nodded cordially to his wife, but made no invitation for her to join him.

She gave him a puzzled look. "All right, my husband. Sleep well." Her voice held a trace of something that might have been hurt or indignation, but he was too tired to wonder about it.

* * *

Some time later, he was awakened by a soft knock on the guest room door. From outside, there were sounds of the fiesta breaking up.

"Come in," he said. His hand went to his gun, just in case.

Victoria slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

John took his hand off the revolver, but he felt even warier than before. "Victoria. What are you doing here?" He took his watch off the bedside table and squinted at it in the dim light from the window. Half past three.

She stood nervously at the foot of his bed, her hands clenched in front of her robe. "John, it is our wedding night," she reminded him.

"Well, yes, but surely you don't…" He sat up. "This is a marriage in name only. A marriage of convenience."

"I do realise that, Mr. Cannon," she said, her voice taking on a coldness he hadn't heard before from her. "But it is still our wedding night." She sounded not unlike her father in her refusal to back down, and it sent chills of apprehension down John's spine. What had he gotten himself into with this family?

Still, he was too tired to deal with this in the middle of the night. "Look, Victoria," he said reasonably, "we seem to have got off on the wrong foot here, and I'm sorry for that. It's half past three in the morning, and we have a long trip ahead of us in just a few hours. Why don't you go back to your room and see if you can get some sleep, and I'll see you at breakfast."

Even in the gloom he could see her face fall. "John," she began, then stopped herself and tried it a different way. "Mr. Cannon, I would like very much to get some sleep, but I do not wish to be humiliated by spending my bridal night alone in my childhood bedroom."

"Oh."

"It would be a scandalous thing for the servants to discover, not to mention my father and our guests."

John thought about that for a moment. "No, I guess that wouldn't be the best start for things, would it?" He pulled down the covers on the other side of the bed and gestured in invitation. "Very well, then, Mrs. Cannon. You might as well stay here."

"Oh, do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do."

She slid in beside him and lay quietly on her back. Neither of them made any move to touch the other. It was a big bed – just the thing for a rich man to impress overnight guests to his hacienda – and there was nearly a foot of space between their bodies. But even with the distance between them, John was acutely aware of her presence. The warmth of her, the sound of her breathing, the scent of her hair. All combined, it made getting back to sleep almost impossible. He stared up at the ceiling and took deep breaths.

_Nervous as a bridegroom,_ he thought.

The minutes ticked by, and still neither of them was asleep. Victoria moved very little, but he could tell she was as tense and restless as he was.

"John?" she whispered finally. "Will we share a bedroom at your home?"

He turned his head towards her. "Suppose so. The ranch house at High Chaparral is a lot smaller than Hacienda Montoya."

Funny. He'd spent half his life sharing a bed with Annalee, and had spent the weeks since her death thinking he'd never get used to sleeping alone. And now suddenly here he was with a new wife thinking that he'd never get used to sharing a bed with her.

* * *

Things thawed between them on the long drive home. Victoria continued to prove herself a fine conversationalist. She had a sense of humour, but didn't laugh indiscriminately, she was intelligent and informed, and best of all, she was perfectly capable of maintaining silence instead of chattering.

She was, in short, good company.

Not unnaturally, she was fascinated by the subject of her new stepson. Every hour or two she would bring the conversation back to him as she thought of new questions to ask.

"Why did you call him Blue?"

"When he was born, the colour of his face reminded me of a strange-looking dog I once had. Best huntin' dog I ever owned, too."

"Oh, dear." Then, later on, "What is he like, your son? Is he like you? Or like your brother, or like his mother?"

John thought about that one for a few minutes before he answered. "Oh, like his mother for the most part, I suppose. He's sensitive, the way she was. Tender-hearted. Too much so for this country. I've heard it said he's got my temper, but that's about all we've got in common."

The look she exchanged with her brother, who was at the moment riding alongside their wagon, didn't need any explanation. He'd seen enough of Manolito's relationship with his father to know that parallels would inevitably be drawn. Well, he couldn't help that. He didn't think much of Don Sebastian's idea of parenting if he could arbitrarily marry off his only daughter to a total stranger, but he had a certain amount of sympathy for the man where this wild-child of a son was concerned. Unlike Blue, Manolito was more than tough enough to survive, but he was utterly irresponsible. More like Buck, but probably a good deal worse. The thought of the three of them under one roof didn't bode particularly well in John's eyes.

The closer they came to the High Chaparral, the more she worried about whether or not Blue would like her. After all, he'd only just lost his mother and he had no warning about any of this.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Buck drew up close to her side of the wagon. "Don't you fret none, Miss Victoria. Blue-Boy's gonna like you just fine," he reassured her in such a breezy tone of voice that John knew he was not being completely truthful. "Just fine. Might take him a little while at first. Like you said, he ain't gonna be expectin' it, but 'fore you know it, you and him's gonna be the best of friends."

John nodded. "Buck's right. Blue's old enough to know that you have to live with what you can't change. It won't take him long." He and his brother exchanged a look over Victoria's head.

* * *

Within minutes of driving in the gate, John knew that they were being too optimistic. Blue greeted his uncle with enthusiasm then turned to his father, eager to find out how they'd left with just the two of them and returned with a dozen people and a supply train.

John didn't try to spare him or break the news gently. He simply said, "This is Victoria. My wife."

Blue's face fell. There was a look of unmistakeable hurt and betrayal in his blue eyes. Without saying a word, he turned slowly away from them and made his way to the bunkhouse.

"Oh, no," said Victoria. "The poor boy. This must be a terrible shock to him."

John patted her hand in a slightly awkward attempt at comfort. "He'll be all right. When he comes in for supper, he'll get the explanation he ran out on."

"Do you think he will accept it?" By which she meant, obviously, _Do you think he will accept me?_

With some annoyance he replied, "He's got no other choice. He has to accept it same as the rest of us do."

His annoyance only deepened as the afternoon wore on into evening. Blue didn't show up again, and when he failed to appear at the table his father began to feel seriously irritated. He was quiet throughout the meal, brooding instead of joining in the conversation. Once in awhile he caught a look that passed between Buck and the two Montoyas, but they left him alone. Just as well. It was his son, and therefore his business.

When bedtime approached and Blue still hadn't returned to the house, John stalked off to the bunkhouse in search of him, fully intending to have a few words with the boy about the necessity of acting like a man instead of whining like a spoilt child not given his own way.

He found Blue stretched out on one of the bunks with his hat over his face. The men quickly got up and left father and son alone to iron out their differences in private. He grabbed the hat off his son's face and tossed it on top of him.

"I want to talk to you."

"About what?" Blue responded in a sulky voice.

"About something called manhood."

From there on it only got worse. Even by the standards of their already strained relationship it was a nasty argument. John was convinced his son was never going to mature into a grown man capable of standing on his own two feet, Blue insisted that his father kept him down and never let him think for himself, and it quickly escalated to both of them agreeing it might be just the thing for Blue to get the hell away from High Chaparral. Forever, if need be.

* * *

He hadn't meant it, of course, but, well, there it was. It was a miracle it had taken this long to come to a break. The two of them had never been close, never understood one another – were seemingly _incapable _of understanding one another – and for nearly twenty years Annalee had been the only thing acting as a buffer between them. Now she was gone, and their son would be gone soon, too. And John himself was left here with nothing but a ranch beset with problems and a new wife he didn't even know.

He slumped on the chair by his bedroom window, head resting against one hand. He opened his eyes and sat up as Victoria entered the room.

"I thought you would be asleep, my husband," she said in some surprise.

John sighed. "I have a great many things on my mind," he explained.

She fiddled with the neck of her dress with increasing frustration, then gave up and came to stand next to him. "Will you unfasten, por favor?"

His long arms reached up to her neckline and undid the top several hooks and the fastener at the waistband of her skirt. It brought a tiny smile to his face. Such a funny little domestic activity. He'd performed the same activity for Annalee countless times over the years. He used to ask her how in the world unmarried women ever managed to change their clothes, and how she'd ever coped without him during the years he was away fighting the war.

"Are you worried about your son?" She didn't look at him as she spoke. Perhaps that made it easier to calmly get undressed in front of him. Diffidently, she stepped out of her black velvet skirt.

"Yes, yes. Among other things."

She crossed to the mirror and started to remove the pins from her hair. It fell down her back in glossy black sections. With no sign of emotion she said, "Perhaps I should go back to my father."

"What makes you say that?" John asked, surprised.

"I don't want to come between you and your son."

John got to his feet and covered the distance between them in only a few steps. He stood close to her, and she turned to look at him. Earnestly he said, "You're my wife. You are Mrs. John Cannon.

She turned to face him and he moved closer to her. She really was stunning, he realised. Not just beautiful, but the sort of woman who could take a man's breath away. And that was exactly what was happening to John, to his great consternation. He didn't love her; in spite of his reassurances he didn't particularly want her here, but he suddenly _desired_ her so much it left him breathless. _Where had this come from?_ he wondered.

Victoria took half a step back and gave him a look that was less than friendly. "I'm your wife in name only," she reminded him, repeating his own words from last night back to him. "The symbol of a political alliance. Is that alliance more important to you than the love of your son?"

He wanted to say something sensible and stolid, reassure her that of course his son was more important than anything else, but that the two things shouldn't be allowed to be mutually exlusive. But this sudden fascination was numbing his mind. Instead, he ignored the subject of Blue and began to talk of love in more general terms.

"Well, I admit that our marriage was not one born out of … love. I'm a hard man; love doesn't come easy to me. Even the word sticks on my tongue. You're my wife; I honour you as my wife. So will my son."

It was both a warning of sorts and the only kind of pledge he was capable of making to her. He would honour her, respect her, and be faithful to her. There was, he supposed, a slight chance he might come to love her one day, but the possibility seemed remote at best. She should realise that. And she should understand that even then she might never hear the words from him.

He simply wasn't a man cut out for flowery declarations of emotion. Or declarations at all, really. Annalee had been the love of his life, the woman he'd _chosen_ to spend his life with, and he'd gone for years without telling her that he loved her. He thanked heaven that he'd had a chance to say the words – more or less – before he lost her. It was bittersweet irony that after all those years of silence, it was the last thing he'd ever said to her. It was the only thing that let him live with himself.

Annalee. Oh, hell.

Her presence here was still strong. Strong enough to stand between him and Victoria, strong enough to tamp down that sudden hunger for her in spite of the way she was now looking at him.

John cleared his throat and turned away from his new wife. "You're right, Mrs. Cannon. Past time we got to sleep."

He sat back down on the chair and pulled off his boots. He moved to his side of the bed, extinguishing the lamp as he did so.

This left the other bedside lamp as the only light in the room, so he pointedly didn't look at the other side of the bed, where Victoria sat removing shoes and stockings and finishing up her nightly routine. He stripped down to his longjohns and slid in between the sheets.

Now he had no place to look but at the other side of the bed. Victoria had divested herself of everything but her underthings and a corset she was having obvious trouble with.

"May I … help you with that?"

"Gracias," she said with a warm smile, and slid closer to him. "At the home of my father I always had maids to help me. Don't worry, Mr. Cannon. I will learn quickly to do it on my own."

John chuckled. "I'm sure you will."

Without warning, as soon as he put his hands on her that same feeling of desire washed over him again, stronger this time. He untied the tapes and loosened the bindings with hands that were less steady than usual. He left them resting lightly on her waist for a moment, then drew his fingers down the curve of her hip.

She went still, but she didn't object. She simply waited for him to move his hands and then pulled the corset over her head.

"You might get the light," he said.

"Of course."

In the dark, he reached out for her again and felt her lean into him. Encouraged, he drew her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers. It was their first real kiss. The kiss that sealed their marriage had been perfunctory at best. This was a kiss that had real hunger behind it. Hunger from both sides, at that. For whatever reason, she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her.

* * *

Afterwards he lay back and listened to the sound of his own ragged breathing. He was aware of his wife moving around, slipping a nightgown over her head.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cannon," he said, without looking at her. It wasn't an ideal thing to say, he knew that, but he couldn't think how else he could possibly respond.

His mind was in a whirl and his emotional state was even worse. He felt low and dirty, like an adulterer or worse. Oh, rationally he knew that he wasn't. She was his lawfully wedded wife and he had every right in the world, legally and morally, to go to bed with her. But in his heart he couldn't help thinking that it should be Annalee here beside him in their bed, Annalee who had just given herself to him.

But it wasn't Annalee, it was Victoria. It would always, from now on, be Victoria.

He became aware of her watching him. Somewhat reluctantly, he turned on his side and met her eyes. There was no accusation there, and she was smiling.

"Finally, I feel as if I am truly your wife," she whispered,and a small part of the irrational guilt began to recede.

"Well, that's … just fine," he said, and almost but not quite managed a smile in return. "Good night, Victoria."

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter Two: The Ghost of Chaparral

Chapter Two:  
"The Ghost of Chaparral"

Life settled into a somewhat uneasy routine over the next few weeks. There were bound to be clashes within a makeshift family comprised of five very different and mostly volatile people, but for the most part things went about as well as could be expected.

Buck finally managed to find Blue and bring him home with a whole band of Apaches hot on their tails. Blue ended up with an arrow in his back, which frightened John more than he could have imagined. The idea of losing his only son the same way as the boy's mother was unthinkable. But he didn't die, thanks in no small part to Victoria's expert nursing.

She was turning out to be a continual surprise. The same woman who initially couldn't handle her own corsets could nurse badly wounded men without flinching, produce amazing meals in a timely manner, and keep the house immaculate even in this dusty wilderness. It hurt to think how much Annalee would have liked her, had she lived long enough for their paths to cross.

Once, in the second week of their marriage, he made the mistake of mentioning that to her.

John took a break from his work to come inside for a cup of coffee. There he found Victoria busily polishing the massive sideboard in the dining room till the dark wood gleamed from her efforts. She stood back from her work and looked from him to the sideboard and back, silently inviting his opinion.

"That looks very nice, Victoria. In fact the whole house looks wonderful since you came." She beamed at him, and he smiled back and gave her the biggest compliment he could think of. "You know, Annalee used to keep things all spit and polished. She'd be pleased to see how you've kept things up around here. I can't help but think that if the circumstances had been different, if the two of you had met she would have really liked you."

Her pleased expression changed in an instant. Dark eyes flashing she told him, "Circumstances are _not_ different, and she would _not_ have liked me! She would have driven me from her home. She still would if she could."

"What!" he exploded. "Annalee never drove anyone from her house. Why in the world would you say such a thing?"

"Because no mere woman such as I would be welcome in the home of such a saint."

"That woman _was_ a saint, and don't you ever forget it."

"Oh, I am not likely to forget it, John Cannon. You are not likely to let me forget it. You tell me every day, and when you are not telling me, your son is telling me, and when he finishes telling me, you are telling me again." She went off in rapid Spanish at the top of her voice. He couldn't follow all of it, but from what he could make out she was cursing his ancestors and her own for ever leading them onto the same path, or something along those lines. Just at the moment he was inclined to agree with the sentiment.

One of the things Big John Cannon was noted for was a big, deep voice with an impressive amount of power behind it. He raised it often, out of frustration or anger, but he rarely brought the full power to it inside the house. This time, however, he couldn't get a word in edgewise without putting some real effort into it. In a voice that could be heard easily at the far reaches of the compound, he bellowed at her, "The only thing I am telling you, Mrs. Cannon, is that you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you mention my wife!"

Victoria's Spanish tirade came to an abrupt halt, and she shouted back at him, "And I would like to tell you, Mr. Cannon, that I am also your wife and I would like you to keep your tongue civil when you talk to me." With that, she threw the polishing rag at his chest and stalked off into the kitchen.

The noise had brought Buck and Manolito into the house, where they stood at the base of the stairs watching the proceedings in the dining room with fascination.

John turned on them. "What are you two doing in here with your mouths hanging open? I thought I told you to soap those saddles."

Buck scratched at his face with a gloved hand. "Well, Big John, we heard what was goin' on and thought you might could use a little help. You know, kinda … intercede like. Bein' that it was your first fight and all." His brother gave him a murderous look but he stumbled on. "Y'know, I reckon they mighta heard you yellin' halfway to Tucson. And your missus, well, she ain't none too quiet either when she get riled up."

Manolito gave a snort of laughter. "Truer words were never spoken. My sister is indeed none too quiet when she is angry. And she is often angry over the smallest things."

"I hope she doesn't intend to make a habit of yelling her head off every time I say a word to her," growled John. "I just tried to give her a compliment, for Pete's sake."

"Well, what in tarnation did you say to her, anyway?"

He told them, and the two men looked at one another in disbelief, shaking their heads. They both sucked in their breaths audibly. Buck covered his face with his hand.

Mano went to his brother-in-law and laid one hand on his arm. "I will tell you one thing, amigo, that may make living with Victoria a little easier for you. A man should never, ever compliment a woman by comparing her to another woman. Not unless he enjoys cold food and a colder bed."

* * *

John went out on his horse for several hours and worked off his anger. By the time he got back home, he'd worked up a powerful hunger and was ready for a good meal.

As he passed the bunkhouse, Blue's voice called out to him. "Hey, Pa. You got a minute?"

John changed directions and headed over to join the group sitting around the table on the porch. "I've got just about a minute, Blue. Gettin' awfully hungry, but if there's something you need…"

Blue exchanged a look with his uncle. "Well, see, that's kinda what we wanted to talk to you about, Pa. About supper. She didn't, I mean, well, when we went in, there was…"

He trailed off and Buck took up the refrain. "See, John, what Blue-Boy's tryin' to say is that if you aim to have anything to eat tonight, you'd best stay over here and have flapjacks with us."

"Because Victoria is still angry and didn't cook," said Mano. "She even yelled at me. Her own brother."

Big John raised his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "All right. I'll just see about that."

He went straight to the kitchen. As they'd said, there was no dinner ready at all. The bare beginnings of meal preparation were scattered around, but they'd been abandoned.

Victoria sat at the table with a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up at her husband and her lips tightened obstinately. He opened his mouth to scold her, but before he could get the first word out he got a good look at her reddened, slightly puffy eyes. She looked so miserable that his heart went out to her.

John poured himself a cup and sat down opposite her. He didn't say anything immediately. After a few sips he told her, "I'm sorry if I said anything that upset you. That was not my intention. I only meant to give you a compliment about the way you've been keeping up the house."

"I know." Her voice was soft. "And I'm sorry that I was rude about Annalee. I know she meant very much to you."

"Yes. Yes, she did."

The pair sat drinking coffee in silence as the room grew steadily darker. At length, Victoria got up and lit the candles and the overhead lamps. She went to her cutting board and took up a knife, then just stood there unmoving. John fought down a sudden urge to go to her and put his arms around her.

Instead, he said, "Do we have any bread left?"

"Of course. I baked only yesterday."

He gave her a grin that wasn't … completely false. "All right, then. The others have eaten, so what's say you get a few of those thinner steaks out of the meat safe, pound 'em out nice and thin and fry them up. We'll have sandwiches right in here, just the two of us."

"If that is what you wish, my husband."

John cut the bread himself while Victoria bustled around preparing the meat. In no time at all they had a fine, impromptu meal for two at the kitchen table. They spoke very little, but at least the silence between them was less strained and awkward.

After they ate he watched as she washed the dishes and quickly put the kitchen to rights. "You're a regular whirlwind," he said with a smile, genuine this time. "All that work in no time flat."

Victoria pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes as she put away the dishpan. "Today I neglected my duty," she said. "Tonight I will not. I want everything in your house to be in proper order."

John's eyes widened. He stood and put himself in her pathway. Grasping her shoulders, he looked down at her solemnly. "Victoria, you are not a servant. You're my wife. This is your house as well as mine, and I appreciate everything you do to make it a home for all of us."

* * *

After their success in settling their first quarrel, and especially after the tenderness between them the rest of that night, John began to feel cautiously optimistic. Maybe there could be peace between them instead of the strained civility of two miserable people trying not to make each other any more wretched than they could help.

He should have known better, of course.

Whatever had initially caused her to flare up about Annalee had opened the floodgates to a torrent of bitterness. John could do or say something as innocent as pointing out that she'd moved the bedroom chair out of its proper place and she'd be angry again. For some reason she had a bizarre, almost superstitious obsession with her predecessor. She never said anything insulting about her again, but she continually pushed at her husband to define _her_ place, to let _her_ be a wife to him and a mother to Blue.

John himself had little sympathy. His grief was raw, and Victoria's entreaties got on his very last nerve. The last thing in the world he wanted was to let go of Annalee, let her be replaced by this woman he'd been forced into marrying.

He accepted Victoria into his home, as he must. He accepted her into his bed because he was desperately lonely and because a man had needs, nothing more. So what if the merest touch of her hand could sometimes bring his blood to a boil? So what if she was charming and amusing and pleasant to be around in the evenings when the day's work was over? Not that she'd been very amusing or pleasant lately, but she'd started out that way.

Without really meaning to, he began to push her away more and more. He stopped calling her Victoria and started calling her Mrs. Cannon. Oh, he was always polite, but what few traces of intimacy they'd started to build were put firmly away. He stopped touching her if he could help it; he no longer put his arm loosely around her shoulders to lead her into the house, or gave her his arm to escort her into dinner. At bedtime he tried to be somewhere else when her shirtwaists needed to be unhooked or her corsets untied. She seemed to have learned to manage her wardrobe well enough, and he didn't need the temptation. He still felt like an adulterer.

Several times a day, he found himself standing at Annalee's grave. He didn't talk to her – the thought wouldn't have occurred to him – but he thought about everything that was going on and wondered what she'd make of it all. Wondered what it was all worth without her to share it with.

Sometimes Victoria followed him. She never seemed sure of her reception, but John lied and told her that her company was always welcome. She usually took his words at face value, and would lead him away while talking with a cheerfulness that was palpably false. Whimsical nonsense, like how the Chaparral was sort of a kingdom. She'd cast him as King, his brother as a Duke, Blue as the Prince … and then she'd stopped, not knowing if she had the right to call herself Queen or not. Demanding, again, to know what her place in his life was. How could he possibly answer that when he no idea himself, and little interest in finding out?

At the same time, he understood that she was to be pitied. She hadn't asked to be a part of this farce of a marriage any more than he had. She was nothing more than a pawn in the power struggle between himself and her father. John knew he should be kinder to her and he resolved to be, time and again, but then she would say or do something to provoke him and the resolution would be broken.

The rest of the household unconsciously followed his lead. Buck stopped calling her by her name, with or without any sort of title, and called her Ma'am.

Blue, who had never really called her anything else, had his own problems with her. For some bizarre reason of her own, she seemed to want to push him as she pushed John. She wanted to step right in and take over the role of his mother. And to the grieving boy, who was already a bit resentful of Victoria, this was the worst thing she could possibly do. She tried constantly to intercede on his behalf with John, and succeeded only in angering them both.

In the end it was Blue whose actions inadvertently brought the whole situation to a head.

He rescued an injured Apache brave who had been tied up and tortured by a group of Mexicans – Don Sebastian's men. The incident set off a war between the Apaches and Rancho Montoya, with High Chaparral taking the brunt of it.

And as if that wasn't enough, into this maelstrom galloped an Englishman who called himself Lord Ashbury or some fool thing like that. He'd come to see Victoria. In fact, he was revoltingly open about the fact that he'd come to _take_ Victoria. On the strength of a few months' acquaintance two years earlier, the man thought he had the right to sweep her off to Europe and away from what he called this 'uncivilised western country', regardless of the fact that she already had a husband.

Everything about him set John's teeth on edge. His initial irritation with the man deepened into a quiet loathing the longer he stayed. He disliked everything about him: his accent, his amused condescension toward these backwards colonials, his complete and utter disregard for the danger the Indians posed to everyone in this compound, and most of all for his free and easy manner with Victoria. He even called her _Vicky!_

* * *

As they prepared for yet another onslaught, John and Buck crouched behind a wagon, rifles at the ready. Buck clearly had something he wanted to say to his brother, but he couldn't seem to spit it out. He kept trying to get his attention, then changing his mind. John ignored him and kept his attention focused on the imminent battle.

"John?" he said again.

"What?"

"Oh, nothin'."

John gave him an impatient scowl. "Come on."

"Well, I shouldn't say it. I, uh, I heard…" Buck hesitated. "Is it true when this is over you be sending her away?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

Buck shook his head. "Ah, I shouldna said it. I heard she was packin' and she, uh, might go off with that English thing."

John's face was rigid as granite. He rubbed his hand up and down the barrel of his rifle. "There's nothing in my agreement with her father that says she can't do anything she wants to do." His words were gruff, matter-of-fact.

Why, then, did he feel as if he'd just taken a violent punch to the gut?

He had no time to think about it. Just then the first Apache was spotted and the battle was on. It all went their way at first, with all the injuries on the Apache side and no significant damage otherwise. And then the flaming arrows started to land in the yard. Before they knew it the windmill was on fire, then a section of the roof, then the fence. And then, most horrifying of all, Victoria's skirt caught on fire as she tried to douse the flames.

Heedless of his own safety, John ran to his wife. He bundled her into his arms and dunked her in the horse trough to put out the flames. "Are you all right?" he asked, breathing hard. _Oh, thank heavens she was safe!_ "You'd better get yourself back in the house."

"You'd better take care of your men, John Cannon," she snapped, and struggled out of the water. He felt an urge to laugh in spite of everything going to hell around them. The woman had spunk, that was for sure.

At that moment the sound of gunfire came from nearby. The Apache raiders began to scatter as the unexpected rescue party thundered up to the Chaparral gates. The men hastened to move the wagon out of the way so Don Sebastian and his men could get through safely.

John approached his father-in-law and gave him a nod of appreciation. "Don Sebastian, I am certainly glad to see you."

"I imagine that you would be. My daughter, is she alive and well?"

"Yes," he said. He thought of her out there fighting the fires alongside his men and smiled in admiration. She couldn't be more alive. "Yes, she is."

* * *

Montoya was holding John personally responsible for the deaths of three of his men, all on account of one "stupid Indian". He didn't care to hear the details of the situation. Furthermore, he declared that their arrangement was ended. Terminated.

He marched Victoria into the house, ordering her to change her clothes and get her things together. He was releasing her from her obligation.

"When I made this arrangement I did not think I had found you a husband who could not even protect you. It is finished, Victoria. It is over, done."

But Victoria, as always, had a mind of her own. "So says my father. And what does my husband say?"

She turned to John, and in an instant he knew what he had to do. John Cannon was no quitter. In his whole life he'd never given up on anything without a fight. He might not have wanted this marriage, but he had it. And he'd be damned if he let anyone take Victoria away from him without fighting for her.

"Mrs. Cannon," he began.

"Yes?"

He swallowed. How could five little words be so hard to say? "I want you to stay."

Victoria gave him a look that was absolutely radiant, and he knew he'd given her the answer she wanted.

She opened her mouth, but before she had a chance to respond Lord Ashbury interrupted. "He must be joking! Stay here in this hell? She won't, of course. Actually, she's coming with me. Aren't you, Vicky?"

"No," she answered, never taking her eyes off her husband. John met her gaze with just a hint of triumph in his expression.

The others argued with her, but she paid no attention. When her father demanded once more that she get her things, and told her it was finished, she shook her head. "No. It is just beginning. Papa, I do respect you and love you very much. But you must understand that I did not become Mrs. Cannon as part of your agreement with my husband. I would never have allowed that.

"When I met John Cannon," she continued, "I knew that I had found a very special man, with whom I could have a far more exciting life than I had ever known. I found a man with a dream, a man big enough to fight the wilderness, the elements, the Indians … and even you, Papa. I found the man I wanted to marry. This is why I came here, not because you sent me. And this is why I will stay."

John stared at her in amazement. He'd had no idea she felt that way. And he'd had no idea what a fine, brave woman he'd married. For the first time since her father had issued his ultimatum, he found himself not actually regretting it.

Somewhere deep within himself John Cannon felt the first faint stirrings of affection for her.

* * *

To his credit, her father knew how to accept his defeat with dignity and grace. As he made ready to depart he told his son-in-law, "It seems we do not always hold the destiny of mankind in our hands. Sometimes it is the woman. Like it or not, it appears we still have an arrangement, eh?"

"I like it, Don Sebastian," John said. He looked at his wife as he said it.

Don Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. "So do I," he admitted.

* * *

Later, he found her standing by the cross that marked Annalee's grave. "I think she's at peace with me now," she said. He took her arm and they started towards the house. "And I am at peace with her. You know, she did help me."

"How?"

"Well, that's our secret. Annalee's and mine."

John didn't pretend to know what she meant by that, but in truth he didn't really care. If there was peace between his living wife and his dead wife, he could find peace with both of them.

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter Three: Shadows on the Land

Chapter Three  
"Shadows on the Land"

The drought that had been in force since before the Cannons' arrival still persisted. The summer monsoon season dropped less than half an inch, and water for the stock was becoming more and more of a problem. John was cautiously optimistic about their chances of making it through the coming winter without major losses.

He'd landed his first major contract, too – five hundred head of cattle to be delivered to Ft. Bowie in thirty days' time, at ten dollars a head. It seemed a sure thing, but the problems started almost the moment he made the deal.

The home herd numbered only about two hundred at present, and the mavericks he'd counted on to make up the number were scarce on the ground. No alternative but to buy cattle at a slightly lower price from smaller ranchers in the area. If he paid them $7.50 a head, and charged the army ten, even after expenses he'd still clear nearly a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars would go a long way in getting his ranch established.

Unfortunately, the small, independent ranchers didn't cooperate. Apparently there was a man by the name of Tanner who had been making the same deal for years now, with both the Arizona ranchers and the Mexican rancheros. That wouldn't have been a problem – the day John Cannon ran scared of honest competition was the day he would lie down and die – except that the competition was far from honest. He set the price, usually $3.00 or $3.50 a head, and gave his suppliers no alternative but to take it. On fear of death, if need be.

He sympathised with the rancheros, but he wasn't going to play the game. If they wanted to sell to someone else, that was up to them, but he wasn't going to allow their cattle access to his ever diminishing supply of water.

It was a move that upset every member of his family, particularly since one of the rancheros was an old family friend of the Montoyas, but John was implacable. Not one drop of water, not one blade of grass would they get.

* * *

Victoria stood at the edge of the porch, gazing out at the moonlit night. There was a faint breeze blowing, just enough to stir the glass wind chimes into a steady but unmusical tink, ting, ting, tink, tink.

"Are you coming to bed, Victoria?" John asked, coming out of the house and standing behind her, resting one hand on her shoulder.

"Soon, my husband. Oh, John, isn't the full moon beautiful? Doesn't a night like this make you want to walk in the moonlight? At Casa Montoya we would hardly be inside on such a night. We would stroll through the gardens and sit in the courtyard."

Instead of replying, he stepped off the porch and looked up at the roof. "JD?" he called. "Any sign of anything out there tonight? Joe, how about you?" he shouted in the direction of the guard tower.

"Nothing, Mr. Cannon!" came both replies.

John extended one arm towards his wife. "Well, why don't we just do that, Mrs. Cannon?" She gave him an enormous grin and hurried to his side, linking her arm through his. Slowly they strolled through the yard.

"Will you go to Tucson tomorrow?" she asked.

"No. Day after, maybe. It's a calculated risk, but not a big one. Tanner's man said he was a few days out of Tucson. We don't want to miss him, but I don't want to have to stay there any longer than we have to.

"I'm happy you do not share such a love of saloons as your brother and my brother."

John chuckled. "Well, according to most people, that makes me the odd one, not them. I got nothin' against saloons, but I get a lot more pleasure out of the land than I ever did cooped up in a bar full of people."

At the gate, they stopped and looked out into the desert. The brightness of the moon illuminated everything for miles around. She was right. It was absolutely beautiful.

Evidently Victoria was again thinking along the same lines, because just as he thought it, she asked, "Was it as pretty as this, where you lived before?"

"Well," he mused, "it kinda depends on what a person means by 'pretty'. The prairies in Kansas can be about as stark as the Arizona desert, just in a different way. Now, Virginia, that's completely different. That's where I was born. It's prettier than Arizona, no contest. Mountains, just like that, but they look blue from a distance. But there's not enough land there, not enough room. Only so far a man can go in the east."

"Not enough room for a dream?"

Her insight caught John by surprise. "Not enough room for a dream," he repeated. "That's exactly it. That's why my pa wanted to move west into the prairies, and why I wanted to move farther west into Arizona."

"And is it worth it?"

"I think so. At least, I think it will be." He put his arm around her and began the leisurely walk back to the house. She gazed up at him and smiled. "One of these days," he continued, "hopefully in our lifetime, Arizona is gonna be a state. I want to be part of making that happen. By the time that day comes, I want High Chaparral to be the biggest, finest cattle ranch that Arizona's ever seen. Will ever see."

"Oh, John, I want that as well. So very much." Victoria's voice sounded dreamy, and yet unmistakeably earnest. He couldn't help giving her a fond smile.

"Well, that won't be for quite awhile, yet, Victoria. We've got lots of work we have to do first, both for the ranch and for the territory as a whole. People like us, we have to tame this country. We've got to make peace with the Indians, some way, somehow. And that means dealing with men like Dolf Tanner who want to sell 'em rifles they can use to exterminate every settler for miles around. That's the most important thing. We've got to find a way to bring peace to the land we've got before we can go expanding it any further. It's got to be safe for people to step out of their houses before this territory can really grow. Safe to settle and raise their families."

John was amazed at himself. He hadn't talked so much in years! And to think he'd told her not that long ago that he'd never be a conversationalist. No, that was true enough. He was pretty sure he didn't have it in him to sit around engaging in small talk like that Lord Ashbury fellow she'd seemed so fond of. There was nothing real about that kind of chatter, and it had always irritated him to listen to it. But talking about his dreams, that was a different matter. He'd never said this much at one time before, but he'd been guilty of boring his family on the subject long before they'd actually set out for Arizona. And he'd held forth pretty well at dinner that night at Rancho Montoya, the night he'd first met Victoria.

Maybe she just had that effect on him.

They reached the house and stepped onto the veranda. Between the light of the full moon and the light spilling out of the open front doors, he could clearly see the sparkle in his wife's eyes as she turned to face him. There was hope in her expression, the mirror of his own.

"That's my dream, I think," she told him.

"To be safe?"

"Yes, but not so much for myself. God willing, you and I will have children one day, and I want them to grow up safe and free, and not afraid. All these things you see happening, that's what I want for our children."

John just stared down at her, slightly stunned. She understood. She seemed to understand what he was getting at perhaps more than anyone else had. For the first time, he saw her as a partner in all this. His future, her future, and the future of the High Chaparral and ultimately Arizona as well, were all bound up together. And for the first time since their ill-advised union, he realised that he wanted her to share it with him. He wanted her to become part of the dream, a part of High Chaparral.

"Yes," he breathed. "That's right. Our children, and Blue's children, and their children."

What else, then, than to take her in his arms and kiss her, with more tenderness than there had ever been between them. There were undoubtedly eyes watching them, both from the house and from the yard, but for once he didn't care.

They drew apart and stood looking at one another. One of John's hands was on her shoulder, the other one still resting lightly against her waist.

Tentatively, Victoria reached up and caressed her husband's cheek with the fingertips of her left hand. Her eyes shone with love for him. John swallowed hard. Fond of her as he'd undoubtedly become, there was no reciprocation in his gaze. But that would come in time; he knew that now. He accepted it.

He bent to kiss her again.

At the exact instant their lips met for the second time, the wind picked up. A strong gust blew through the veranda, nearly closing one of the heavy wooden doors and stirring the wind chimes into a violent cacophony.

John looked up, badly startled. It was almost as if Annalee's ghost was rising up and demanding to know why he was forgetting her so quickly, moving on with this other woman. He didn't even believe in ghosts, for heaven's sake, but the coincidence was just too much for him to take. He pushed Victoria away from him and stalked past her into the house without a word.

"John," she called after him, but he pretended not to hear.

The next afternoon, he and Buck left for Tucson. He claimed it was better to go early and not take a chance on missing Tanner, and try to make a deal with some of the other small ranchers for their cattle. He told himself his actions had nothing whatsoever to do with Victoria or Annalee, but he knew better.

* * *

Two days later, weary and dissatisfied, they returned home. The trip had been a failure on every conceivable level. The other ranchers were either too afraid of what Tanner might do to them or too resentful of a newcomer trying to push them around. Not a single one agreed to sell to John.

The highpoint of the meeting with Tanner had been Buck threatening to shoot him. John almost wished he'd let him do it. There was going to be trouble there, he could feel it in his bones. He'd learned a long time ago never to trust that type of man. Always civil, always friendly, never raising his voice, and always making veiled threats about what would happen if he wasn't given his way absolutely.

The family came out to meet them. Victoria was smiling and excited about some sort of "surprise" she had for him. John didn't fail to notice her brother's less than enthusiastic expression, and his guard was up immediately.

She went back into the house and came out leading Jacinto Perez, one of the Mexican rancheros, by the hand.

Oh. So that was it. She'd been compelled to go to the old family friend and interfere in the situation, beg on her husband's behalf. Well, wasn't that just like the woman!

Hat in hand, Perez said earnestly, "I owe the Montoyas a great deal. I don't have much, but if it had not been for Don Sebastian, I would have nothing."

Of course. Of course she would have had to resort to reminding him how much he owed her family. She couldn't possibly just have enough faith in him to handle the situation on his own. No, she had to go reminding everyone that her father was all great and powerful, unlike the man she married, who couldn't even manage to buy one small herd of cattle without the help of his wife and the rest of the blasted Montoyas. Well, he wasn't going to cut off his nose to spite his face, but he wasn't about to take it lying down, either.

"You're not selling to Don Sebastian," he reminded the man. "You're selling to me."

"And to the senora," Perez said, confirming his suspicions.

"What if Tanner gives you trouble?"

Victoria, full of enthusiasm for her scheme, interrupted, "Oh, I promised we would help him. And the same to any of the other rancheros who want to sell to us."

John gave his wife a look of cold fury. "I have too much to do to be able to be a policeman for this whole territory."

Exactly the opposite of the threat he'd made to Dolf Tanner that very morning, which his brother wasted no time in pointing out. John ignored him.

"Your money will be waiting for you when you deliver the cattle," he told Perez in dismissal. Then he turned to his wife and said, "And don't you ever do anything like this again without consulting me."

He staggered blindly in the direction of Annalee's grave, seeking whatever comfort he might find there. Dimly, he could hear the Montoya siblings arguing, but he paid no attention.

John stared down at the rocks piled on top of the mound of dirt, and at the homemade cross at one end. She would never have done this to him. Annalee had known better than to interfere in a man's business. She'd respected him, respected his boundaries, known better than to push him. She was a good, kind, sensible, wifely sort of woman.

That, that … daughter of Don Sebastian's was a temptress with a vicious disposition. "She has a mind like a wild horse," her father had said when he'd proposed this cursed arrangement. He should have paid more attention. Stubborn, ill-tempered, demanding … always asserting some kind of self-assumed authority over his whole family. And they let her do it. Every one of them, himself included. No matter how opposed they were to what she wanted, they gave in to her and thought it was their own idea. She had a knack of making herself wanted. He remembered how very much he'd wanted her the other night, how close he'd let her get. He'd done things before that he regretted, of course, but he'd never regretted anything more than letting Victoria get close to him. Letting himself get close to her.

No. That hadn't been the mistake. Marrying her in the first place, that had been the mistake. Everything else came back to that.

Buck's shadow fell across the grave. He stood watching his brother for a minute, then said, "Cannon pride."

"Go away, Buck," said John.

Instead, he came to stand next to him. "Maybe it ain't pride," he suggested. "Maybe you act like you do with Victoria cos part of ya's down in that grave with Annalee. Best part, I'd say."

John, sick with grief and pride and anger and guilt, could barely speak. "I never should have married her."

Buck put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Gently, he said, "She was tryin' to help, John. Victoria was only trying to help you. What are you afraid of? You afraid of bein' beholden to her? You afraid that if she starts acting like a wife you're gonna have to treat her like a wife?"

"I never should have married her," he repeated, almost in tears.

"But you did," Buck pointed out. "She was the price of peace with Montoya, and you paid it. And if I know old Don Sebastian, he ain't the kind to wanna give a refund. John, Annalee loved you. She loved ya." For a moment John was afraid he was going to say that Victoria loved him too, and he knew if he did he was going to punch his brother in the face. But he didn't. He just told him the simple truth. "She'd be the last person in the world to have wanted to take any part of you down in that grave with her. John, you gotta face up to it. Annalee's gone. She is gone. Victoria's here, and she's ready to be your wife whenever you're ready to be her husband."

John shook his head, not willing to accept the truth of what his brother was telling him. Not able to accept it. Not yet.

"It's too soon, Buck," he said. "I need more time."

"More time. All right, John, maybe so. Let's just hope you don't need more'n you got."

* * *

Buck's words were more prophetic than he knew. Within hours, Perez was dead and Tanner was on the move.

Word came that his men were setting up camp in Barranca de Oro. That meant he would drive his cattle over the ravine in the morning towards Big Pond. He was making good his threat to take water and graze by force if necessary. There would be a fight, and there was every chance it was a fight the Cannons might lose.

John assembled the men on the porch to apprise them of the situation. It wasn't their fight, he told them. They were ranch hands, never meant to be hired guns. Any man who wanted to bow out of the fight was welcome to take his pay now, and get clear before the trouble started.

Sam, because it was always Sam, the best of them all, was the first to speak. "Mr. Cannon, I can only speak for myself and my brother Joe, but the way we feel is, well, if there was something we were hankerin' to do before we cashed in, we'd come in and get paid off and just ride off. But there ain't anything, nothing I can think of anyway. So you can just figure on us being here in the morning.

The rest of the men nodded silent agreement, and John looked at them all gratefully. "All right," he said, and went into the house.

He gave Blue the same out. He didn't have to fight, but having chosen to do so, he would stay at home with Manolito and Vaquero and guard the house. His son didn't take kindly to the idea.

Before they had a chance to argue the point, however, John was distracted by the noise of the wind chimes clanking loudly. He stepped outside to see Vaquero standing on a stool, in the act of taking them down. When he asked why he was doing that he replied simply, "I was told to."

John, mystified, asked, "Who told you?"

Victoria stepped out the other door. "Do you really have to ask?" Then her face fell, as she realised she'd probably gone too far. Eyes downcast, she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I know what it means to you. I shouldn't have asked Vaquero to take it down. Leave it there," she ordered.

Vaquero stepped off the stool and headed back in the house.

Looking at the undisguised misery in his wife's face, John couldn't find it in him to be angry at her. He'd been wrong earlier. She wasn't a master manipulator like her father. She was nothing but a sad woman trapped in a marriage with a man who didn't love her.

He knew what he had to do, not just for Victoria's sake but for his own.

"Vaquero?" he said. "Take them down."

It was agony letting them go, like killing Annalee all over again. But if he were to ever begin to live again himself, it had to be done.

* * *

John and Blue rode back towards the ranch together after the battle. Blue, instead of feeling like a hero as he had every right to do, was quiet and withdrawn, shaken by all the death he'd seen.

His father was quiet, too, but for the opposite reason. He was so proud of Blue he could burst. His son, left behind at the house because there had been every reason to think he would be the only Cannon left alive at the end of the day. His son, who'd acted on his own initiative and come riding in on higher ground with Manolito and saved them all. His son, his only son, who had taken down at least three Apaches all by himself. There was hope for the boy yet. More than hope. One of these days, he was going to get his head out of the clouds and be magnificent.

Being John, of course, he had trouble with actually saying any of that. He expressed his feelings via a series of affectionate pats on the shoulder. Every so often he looked over at the boy and grinned at him, a wide, enthusiastic, totally uncharacteristic grin. When Blue happened to catch him in one of those grins, he gave his father a slightly sheepish smile and looked away.

"You know, your mother would have been proud of you, son." The statement fell far short of the mark, but it was so much easier to say than what he wanted to.

Blue glanced over at him. "Ya think so?"

"I know so."

Blue went silent again, but his shoulders were noticeably less slumped. After awhile, he finally spoke up. "You ever miss her, Pa?"

John's mouth tightened with irritation for a moment, but he managed to rein it in. "Every day of my life, boy."

"Yeah, me too."

"Y'know," John confided, "I thought for awhile there that I was gonna be joining her today. Would have, too, if not for you and Mano."

The shy smile appeared again, but he brushed aside the compliment. "Not in any hurry, I hope?" he said, half-teasing.

John thought about the day before. He couldn't honestly say what would have happened to him if the confrontation had happened yesterday instead of today. Buck was right. He had been so caught up in his grief that a good part of him had been buried with her. He wasn't about to tell his son that, though.

"No. Giving up is for cowards. Besides, she wouldn't want it. She'd want us both to go on, live our lives, and just … remember her."

The compound came into view, and they could hear rifle shots and whoops of excitement from the sentries. Victoria darted out of the house in a flash of pink.

"You know, Pa, Victoria's actually kinda nice."

"Yeah," agreed John. "Victoria's … kinda nice."

She ran to greet them as they rode in. She started to run to her husband as he dismounted, but then stopped herself at the last second, standing hesitantly in front of him.

Well, this couldn't go on, thought John. She wasn't even sure if she should approach him. It was his own blasted fault, but he couldn't allow it to continue. So he reached out and pulled her into a hug, feeling her relax against him.

"Gracias a dios," she whispered, "you're alive."

"Thanks to Blue and your brother."

She let go of him and gave Blue a very quick, almost formal, hug. Apparently she'd learned her lesson there a bit as well. "Thank you, Blue. You and Manolito – whatever you did, gracias. And the others?" she asked John.

"They're fine. Be along shortly, soon as they wrap up things back there."

"It's all over?"

"It's all over. We still don't have the cattle, but we will."

"Oh, I'm so glad."

He laid his arm lightly around her shoulders and led her into the house.

* * *

That same night, she reached for him as they got ready for bed and like a fool he went into her arms once again. Maybe it was the sheer relief at being alive, but he found himself needing her. He was aching for the woman he loved, and taking solace in the arms of the woman he'd married.

The woman he'd married was, as always, eager and responsive. Increasingly so the longer they were together. His second wife was a passionate woman, in bed and out of it, and she could rouse him to a fever pitch with the slightest touch.

And every ardent response was just one more nail in his coffin.

Afterwards, he said the same thing he said to her every time. "Thank you, Mrs. Cannon."

But this time there was a difference. This time, for whatever reason, he braced himself on one elbow and brushed the hair out of her face gently, stayed looking at her in the dim light for a moment instead of rolling over and away from her. Smiling up at him, she moved her head just enough to plant a kiss on his fingertips. John felt a warm, clenching sort of sensation in the middle of his chest, and his heart did funny things all of a sudden. He felt twenty years old and ready to take on the world.

"Victoria," he laughed, "you are the very devil!"

She took it just the way it was meant. "Gracias."

He gave her one quick kiss. "Good night."

"Good night, my husband."


	4. Chapter Four: Gold is Where You Leave It

Chapter Four

"Gold is Where You Leave It"

He was flirting with her at the dinner table. Playing at gallantry, and in Spanish no less. Granted, the flirting was probably somewhat less impressive than his inexpert Spanish, but he didn't care. It amused Victoria, and brought a light into her eyes that he enjoyed seeing.

Her brother, seated next to her, wasn't even trying to keep a straight face.

Things in their blended family had been reasonably peaceful of late. There hadn't been any more moonlight walks for John and Victoria, but neither had there been any real quarrels in two weeks or more. This was beginning to feel like things _should_ be. Five adults should be able to share a home with some semblance of peace and dignity, be able to treat each other like human beings, and enjoy, rather than endure, one another's presence. Not to mention a little peace and quiet at the end of the day sure made it easier to concentrate on running the ranch the rest of the time.

Of course, he should have known all that tranquility was too good to last. Something was bound to come along and shatter it into a million pieces.

As was so often the case, the "something" turned out to be Buck, or rather Buck and Blue.

Victoria had been on somewhat of a campaign lately to make sure all of the men were clean and presentable when they appeared at the dinner table. John found this understandable, even if it was a bit fussy compared to the way they were used to doing things. It didn't take him long to get used to a quick wash up and a fresh shirt before lunch, and it didn't seem too much to ask for his brother and son to do the same.

He gave her a reassuring nod when she brought it up again tonight. "I've talked to them already about that. You don't have a thing to worry about."

Famous last words.

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Buck and Blue entered the house noisily, both covered from head to foot in thick, grimy desert dust. The smell wafting off both of them was at least as bad as the dirt.

Blue sat down right away and stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, heedless of the fact that the dirt from his hands wiped off onto the fresh bread. Buck was more garrulous, exclaiming about the dust storm they'd run into. To prove his point, he showed his dust-covered hat to everyone, shaking it out where he stood then blowing the remainder off onto the table, covering food, plates, and all.

Victoria got to her feet, looking daggers at the both of them. "Oh, no. I will not stand for it. I will not have it this way!" she shouted, throwing her napkin down on the table.

Buck gaped at her. "Something wrong, Señora?"

"You are wrong! I will not have my house smelling like a pigsty. And I will not have you dirtying everything I have just cleaned." And she stalked out of the room fuming.

The two offenders just blinked in surprise at the tantrum that had seemed to come out of nowhere. Manolito, with his lifetime's exposure to his sister's ways, sat and laughed. John, though, set his mouth in a hard line of displeasure. _Well,_ he thought, _so much for peace and harmony. _Was it really too much to ask for a man to have a nice, pleasant meal in his own home without having it turned into a shambles by slovenly relations and screeching wives?

Blue looked up, amused. "Whoo, what was that all about?"

"Have you got so much desert dirt in your ears you couldn't hear?" demanded John. "Didn't I tell you to clean up before coming to table? To change your clothes?"

The boy made a few attempts at excuses, then stalked out to eat with the hired hands when it became obvious his father wasn't having any of it.

Buck gave a slight chuckle. "Women!" he said. "I tell you, John. She'll get over it."

John lit into him next. He accused him of coming to the table looking like a gutshot Apache, then ordered him to go to town to get himself and Blue some decent clothes, not to mention soap and a new razor. He didn't intend for this nonsense to be repeated.

Within moments the table was deserted, leaving John alone with a steak that had grown cold during the ruckus, wondering if every single one of them had gone crazy.

* * *

After supper – such as it was – he headed upstairs to find Victoria. She wasn't about to escape a telling off for her part in the proceedings, either.

He found her pacing angrily back and forth in their bedroom. "Mrs. Cannon," he began.

"Yes, Mr. Cannon?" she said, in a tone that still sounded distinctly combative.

"Now don't get high and mighty with me," he warned her. "I'm here to have an understanding – a very clear understanding – between us."

"And I welcome it."

John began patiently enough, wanting to let her know that he did understand her side of things. "You've been gently raised, I know that. And I know that it must be difficult for you to, uh, understand certain things."

"Such as what, Mr. Cannon?" She spoke in a lower voice, trying to match his studied patience, but he couldn't help but notice that her arms were still crossed and her lips were compressed into a thin line.

"Such as how it is with men like Buck and Blue."

"Oh, I understand they can be very dirty. That was made very clear to me this evening."

"Now, that was honest dirt, and it was earned with hard labour," he said lamely. Oh, this wasn't going well. They'd only been talking for thirty seconds and she _already_ had him wrong-footed, forced into the position of defending Buck and Blue and their revolting appearance.

"Why, very little additional labour would remove that dirt."

He tried again. "Mrs. Cannon, I did not come here to discuss whether or not they should come to the table clean. They should be clean, of course. I don't question that. I came here to discuss whether or not you have the right to tell these men what they must or must not do in this house." He was firm, implacable, his irritation with her plainly evident.

"I certainly have the right to tell them to come to my table clean!"

"No, you do not," he said in a voice that no one else would dare to argue with. Being Victoria, of course, she argued. When she continued to insist that she did have the right, he told her, "Mrs. Cannon, Buck is my brother. Blue is my son. And I will not permit you to tell them how to behave in my house."

Victoria's eyes flashed dangerously. "_Your_ brother and _your_ son and _your_ house?"

"That's right."

"Well, you won't tell them, and if I don't who will?"

"I did tell them," said John.

"Oh?" She looked slightly abashed. "Well, I didn't hear you."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't hear me. Because I will not take a man to task in front of a woman. Especially you."

That was particularly important to him. She was his wife, deserving of the respect of all the members of his household. Respect that might be difficult for them to give if they were shamed in front of her. Unfortunately, she took it to mean something else entirely.

"Especially me?" she said, voice becoming unpleasantly shrill in her anger. "What am I, a servant in your house? Madre mia, Señor Cannon. Never in my life I've been treated this way before."

John sighed. "Mrs. Cannon, you are going to have to learn to live with my rules."

Victoria rapped her knuckles against the side of her head and glared at him. "Qué cabeza dura! I certainly will not. I will live by no rules but my own. I will not be treated like a common servant by a brute of a husband, and an unwashed brother and an unwashed son. I'm the mistress of this house, Señor Cannon, and as long as I am I demand to be treated like one." John looked down disbelief as she repeatedly jabbed one emphatic fingernail into his shirt as she said fiercely, "And until you learn to do so you will kindly keep your distance, Señor Cannon."

And with that, she stalked out of the room, leaving her husband staring after her and wondering how he'd been bested so thoroughly. Keep his distance, eh? Well! He knew in no uncertain terms what she meant by that. And cabeza dura?! She was calling _him_ hard-headed? That woman was the stubbornest, most difficult … she was absolutely the living end.

The dent her finger had made in the fabric of his shirt remained for several minutes after her dramatic exit.

* * *

That night, she pointedly slept as far away from him as she could, scrunched close to the edge of the bed. He sighed and thought what a childish thing it was to do. Annalee occasionally – very, very occasionally – had a fit of the sulks, but she would never have done that. She would have gently rebuffed him, and perhaps turned her back. Of course, she would never have screeched at her son and her brother-in-law, either. Not that she would have been any more pleased than Victoria to have them show up for a meal looking like… Oh.

Well. Annalee wouldn't have yelled at them, but she would never in a million years have allowed anyone to sit down at her table in that disgraceful condition. Moreover, they wouldn't have done it. Not to her. They wouldn't have even thought of it. Because Annalee had been the unquestioned mistress of the house.

And that role, no matter how difficult it was for him to admit it, now belonged to Victoria. No matter what the circumstances of their marriage, in making her his wife, in bringing her into his home, he had made her the mistress of his household. It was wrong to keep her from her rightful place and her rightful authority.

John turned over on his other side, facing away from her. He hated all these uncomfortable domestic squabbles that took his attention away from his ranch where it belonged. Why did all this have to be so blasted difficult?

In the morning, Victoria decided on the spur of the moment to go into Tucson with Sam and Buck.

* * *

After breakfast, as John was overseeing things out in the yard, she appeared on the porch wearing her new blue travelling suit that she'd ordered in town.

She stepped out into the sunlight and spun around in front of him. "Do you like?"

Oh, he liked, all right. He'd brought it back himself last time he'd been into Tucson, but this was the first time he'd actually seen what she'd ordered. Some French material like velvet, he thought he remembered her saying. John couldn't possibly be less interested in women's fashion, but he had to admit this was eye-catching. The intense blue shade picked up the bluish highlights in her black hair, even under the protection of her parasol.

"Yeesss," he breathed. "Kinda rickety, though, for that long trip to Tucson. But it's pretty. It's real pretty. And so are you." The words were out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think about it, surprising them both.

"Thank you, Mr. Cannon." She gave him that modest, thrilled smile of hers, the one that had just lately begun to make his pulse quicken. He didn't know why it suddenly had that effect on him, but it was a rather pleasant sensation.

After a moment of just staring at her, he recollected what it was he'd intended to tell her. "Oh, about last night," he said, by way of apology. "You were right. And, uh, I'm gonna try to keep those cockadoodles in line. You buy anything you want to for this house. Anything. All right?"

If she still wanted rugs, or even a piano, that was only her right as the mistress of the house.

"Gracias, John."

He had to fight the urge to put his hands on her shoulders and kiss her right there in broad daylight in front of everybody. But he resisted. Clearing his throat, he said, "I'll go check the rig."

* * *

After such a hot, dry summer, winter seemed strangely determined to come in early. It wasn't the kind of winter any of the Cannons had been used to anyplace else they'd lived, but it was a definite change from the weather they'd been living with since their arrival. Best of all, it brought much needed rain to the entire area, replenishing their badly depleted sources of water.

John knew it was time to pay his promised visit to Cochise. He'd told the Apaches more than once that he'd come and talk peace with the great chief "before winter came".

Victoria was badly frightened by the idea. He reassured her as much as he could, putting on a brave face and pretending that her fears were groundless. There would never be peace in this territory until someone talked to the Indians face to face, and no one else seemed to want to do it.

She stood by his horse and held onto his gloved hand with both of hers. "Don't you worry," he told her. "We'll be back in a few days."

"I'll try, John," she said, but her expression was still sad and worried.

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze of reassurance, then looked around at all the men. It was a pity they were there, otherwise he would… _Oh, confound it,_ he thought. He was a grown man and she was his wife. He could deal with a little embarrassment. So he leaned down from the saddle and gave her a quick kiss, then straightened up and cleared his throat, feeling his face redden a bit. But when he saw the way her whole face brightened, he was glad he'd done it.

"Bye," he said.

Victoria shook her head. "Hasta pronto," she corrected. See you soon.

"That's right," said John, and gave the order to ride out.

* * *

They spent an interesting few days in the mountains at the Indian camp. He took with him his brother-in-law, because Mano was reasonably skilled at the Apache language; his son, because Blue had already earned something of a reputation as a friend to Apaches in jeopardy, even at the risk of his own life; and his brother, because – well, because it was impossible to leave Buck out of anything. Besides, people liked him. John hoped he'd prove just as likeable and popular with Cochise's people as he did with everyone else.

Cochise was a surprisingly amiable host. Wary, of course, and more cagey than pretty much anyone John had ever met, but he seemed to be enjoying himself and he made sure his guests did the same.

They smoked the peace pipe together, and talked of the land and the buffalo and the soldiers. They didn't exactly see eye to eye, and it seemed as if nothing had been accomplished by the visit, but it was a start. At the very least he was sure he'd established himself in the minds of the Apache as a man who was at least _willing_ to be just.

The foursome headed towards home, making jokes about how they might not have brought lasting peace to the Arizona Territory, but at least they still had their scalps.

Manolito pulled his horse alongside Big John's. "You know, Mr. Cannon," he said, "I overheard something yesterday that you should know about."

"Oh?"

"Si. I heard it said that the Apaches, they are impressed by the fact that you of all people treat them with respect."

John gave his brother-in-law a quizzical look. "Why me of all people?"

"They say it is strange and – como se dice? – _convincing _that you should come to them respectfully and talk of peace even after your woman was killed by the arrow of an Apache brave."

John was silent for a long moment. The grief was suddenly opened up anew, though it didn't seem _quite_ as overpowering this time. He managed to say, "Well, Mano, I don't know who that one particular brave was, and I'm not sure I'd be so all-fired generous and respectful towards him if I did, but I'm not about to blame a whole group of people for the actions of one man."

"Exactly, John, and that's what they're not used to."

Before he could answer, Blue's big palomino trotted up to join them. "Hey, Pa, I been thinkin'. What do you suppose Cochise meant about joining his people to the mountains for the winter?"

"He means that he will take his people deeper into the mountains until spring," answered Manolito.

"I'd heard that he had some sort of 'winter stronghold'," said John, "but I never knew there was any truth to the rumour."

Manolito nodded. "Oh, yes, he's been doing that for ten, perhaps fifteen years now."

"Don't know what we'll do for a whole season without Indian attacks," joked Blue.

John shook his head. "There's still Geronimo," he said. "And Soldado, and the rest of 'em. And the Pimas; I wouldn't count them out."

There had been a little trouble with a couple of Pimas just the other day, when Buck, Victoria, and Sam had been attacked on the way home from Tucson. Those two had apparently been working for somebody else, though, and there had been no real harm done except for a few bruises and scaring the life out of John when he heard about it. He wasn't about to consider them a non-threat, but for the most part Blue was right. Things should be a lot quieter for the next few months.

They'd been on Chaparral land for nearly an hour when they stopped to rest the horses at a watering hole. It gave them a chance to stretch their legs and have a cup of coffee before making the last leg of the journey.

"Wonder if Victoria will have supper waitin' on us?" said Buck.

Manolito laughed. "Not if you don't change your shirt, amigo."

"Ha," said Blue.

"You know, Buck, I'm still curious about what it was that you and my sister argued about when you said you were leaving the ranch."

"Yeah, Uncle Buck. You never did tell us why you were goin' and how come you changed your mind."

Buck gave his nephew an affectionate cuff on the chin. "None o' your business, that's why. Ain't nobody's business but mine and Victoria's."

John, several feet away checking a cinch strap, straightened suddenly and gave his brother a hard look. He'd had his suspicions at the time, and now he was dead certain about it. Buck had a longstanding habit of becoming briefly smitten with married women, particularly unhappily married women. He'd seen the same thing time and again during the years they'd spent together. Nothing ever came of it, at least nothing John ever knew of, but it had always irritated him to watch. Now it infuriated him.

When they started off again he contrived to let the others get some distance ahead, while he lagged behind with Buck.

In a voice that he hoped was quiet enough not to be overheard he said, "Now, it's none of Blue's business, it may not even be any of Manolito's business, but Victoria's my wife and that makes it _my_ business. Now what exactly happened between you and her the other day?"

"Well, nothin' _happened_, John, not really. You oughtta know that. Just a … a misunderstandin', like," he mumbled, not looking at John. After a moment he glanced over at him and said, "She seems to think you don't like her."

John was caught completely off guard. "Don't _like_ her?" he said, mystified. "Why the devil would she think that?"

And here he was afraid that she was _too_ aware of how much he liked her. Every time he touched her, every time he looked in her direction he was afraid of seeming too fond of her. But Victoria, who sometimes seemed to be able to look into his mind, thought he didn't like her.

"Well, you were the one rantin' not that long ago 'bout how you shouldna married her."

"I was wrong then, Buck," he admitted, his voice a barely audible mumble.

"Now, I know that, Brother John. And I sure be glad to know you finally figured it out. But now, does Victoria know it, that's the question." John made a growling sound. "No, John, I'm serious. Mebbe all she sees is that one minute you act like you just want her around to clean your house and cook your food and warm your bed, and the next minute you look at her like she's some kinda queen, like all the rest of us just better bow down to her if we know what's good for us. And then you get mad and go off like you don't want her around a'tall. Now, Victoria, she just a woman. How you expect her to know what to make of all that?"

Buck stopped talking, cogitated a minute. Then a light dawned in his eyes and he stared at his older brother. A grin spread across his face. "Y'know, big brother, iffen I didn't know any better, I'd think…"

"You'd think _what?"_ John said, making it sound threatening.

"Nothin', John. Just forget I said anything."

"That's usually the best way to handle conversations with you."

* * *

Money grew tighter over the winter. Nothing John wasn't used to after a lifetime spent in ranching, but there was always more on the line with a new enterprise. Their reserves of cattle weren't quite as plentiful as he'd hoped, and they badly needed new breeding stock as well. That would most likely have to be paid for in cash, and there would be no further income till the cattle drives started up again in spring. On the bright side, he'd already had some tentative offers from army posts. The customers were ready and waiting, if only he could get the numbers up in time.

The plan was to celebrate Christmas on a small scale, but Victoria's idea of a small celebration didn't exactly match her husband's. She made too much food – though of such quality no one thought of complaining – and she was too extravagant in her gift to John.

He sat in the chair in their bedroom, absently playing with the pearl handled knife she'd given him.

Victoria put down her hairbrush and glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Do you not like it?" she asked.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, I do. It's the nicest knife I've ever owned. But you know, Victoria, this is awfully expensive. We're just getting started here. Every penny counts. We can't really afford to waste money on—"

"If you like it, it is not a waste. And it wasn't your money, my husband, it was mine."

"Yours?" he said, surprised.

"Yes, mine. I traded a small brooch that my mother left me. It was not particularly valuable, and she never really liked it. Did I do wrong?"

"Well, no. No, you can do as you like with your own things."

She didn't respond directly, but he could tell she was satisfied from the slight toss of her head as she resumed brushing her hair.

By the time she was finished and ready to turn down the covers, he had his boots off and was getting ready for bed. As she moved to turn down his side of the bed, John reached out one hand. She turned and he rested his hands on her shoulders.

"This is nice," he said, caressing the soft fabric of the nightgown that had been his only present to her.

"Yes," agreed Victoria. "I like it very much, John. And it's quite warm, as you said."

"Seemed practical. Soft and warm, and, well, pink … suits you."

She blushed at the largely unintentional compliment, and reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Mr. Cannon," she said with a saucy grin, then slipped away from him while he was still working out how to take all that.

_to be continued..._

**Author's Note: **_I'm trying to do these chapters more or less in original broadcast order, except for episodes like Gold is Where You Leave It, which was obviously aired out of sequence. (It was the nineteenth episode that NBC aired, putting it well behind a number of episodes that take place much later chronologically. Not only are John and Victoria much less close in this one – still routinely calling each other Mr. and Mrs. Cannon – but it takes place at a completely different time of year. John is still promising that visit with Cochise he mentioned in episode 4.)_

_Thanks so much for all the reviews! In a section this dead, I wasn't really expecting any. And Mkat, you make my day! __ Sorry this chapter took so long; the original fourth chapter got so long in fact I've had to split it into two. The next part is nearly finished and should be up in a few days. _


	5. Chapter Five: Young Blood

Chapter Five:

"Young Blood"

**Author's Note:**_ I tried to upload this chapter the other day, just as the site went buggy. It uploaded directly without letting me preview, stripped out all formatting, and wouldn't let me edit after it was uploaded. Apologies to anyone who got an alert for nothing._

He couldn't believe that something as mundane as a shopping list could cause so much trouble.

No sane human being could get so worked up about a simple thing like his not consulting her about the list of supplies they needed from Tucson. And yet, she did. Instead of just grabbing the list and adding what she needed like any halfway sensible person would do, she threw a fit, stalked off, and apparently spent the rest of the day sulking.

John just shook his head and left her to it. He was coming to realise that that was generally the best way to handle it. He came in slightly late for the midday meal, expecting to find things had all blown over while he was out working. Besides, the boys were in town today, so it would be just the two of them. Sometimes he really enjoyed having no one around but her.

This obviously wasn't going to be one of those times. To his annoyance, he discovered no sign of food on the table. He yelled for his wife.

"Victoria, isn't dinner ready yet?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid not," she said sweetly.

He was instantly wary. The smile on her face was palpably false, and she looked the picture of pretended innocence. He would have wondered what the woman was up to this time, but he couldn't be bothered right now. "Well, why not? I am so hungry I could eat a horse."

Victoria gave him that sickly sweet smile again, and said, "Well, in that case I would suggest you go prepare it yourself. I'm not experienced in cooking horses." Her voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm.

He couldn't believe it. She was seriously telling him to go and cook his own food, after the morning he'd put in?

"Since you have taken over my other responsibilities," she said, "I don't see why you shouldn't take over my duties in the kitchen."

The light finally dawned. "Ah! Ah, so that's what's been bothering you. Now, listen, Victoria, I just forgot to consult you about the list of supplies."

She forgot the sweet and innocent act as her more characteristic anger flared up. "You did not forget. The thought never even entered your mind."

"All this fuss over such a little thing?" John took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him, tried to jolly her out of it. "Well, after all, there are only certain basic things we need, such as flour, salt, sugar …"

"Did you think of comino?"

He went blank. "No, no. Comino, what's that?"

"Comino, comino!" Victoria said, throwing up her hands. "As you say, it's a very little thing, but a very important ingredient in the frijoles you enjoy so much. And now if you are still hungry, I suggest you should go in the kitchen and start cooking that horse, Señor Cannon."

* * *

In the end, John found a couple of eggs and scrambled them, defiantly leaving the dishes for her to clean up. He hoped tonight wouldn't be a repeat performance, but he was completely unsurprised when he came in to find her sitting on the sofa reading a book.

She ignored his presence completely, and he said nothing to her for nearly an hour.

At last, when darkness had fallen and it was well past the usual hour of their evening meal, he risked it. "Victoria?"

"Yes?" she said, her attention still ostentatiously on her reading.

"The boys will be coming home from town soon. It's late. They'll be tired and, uh, hungry," he pointed out. He was being as patient and circumspect as he could possibly be with her, which was quite a bit more patient than normal. This nonsense couldn't be allowed to continue much longer, but the last thing he wanted was for her to get all fired up again.

"I was just thinking about it," she said, without raising her eyes from the book. "It's too bad they won't have anything hot to eat."

John spread his arms and sighed with frustration. "Victoria, I said I was sorry about forgetting to consult you about the supplies…" he began. He was interrupted by the sound he'd been listening for, as the wagon pulled up in front of the door.

When he went outside to check on things, Buck pulled a small parcel from inside his glove and handed it to his brother. "Somethin' _you_ bought for Victoria," he said with a knowing smile.

Ah. One of the little presents he'd suggested before they left, designed to take her mind off whatever it was that was bothering her. John hadn't seen the point at the time, but he was sure glad Buck had gone ahead with the idea. Maybe it would help. Nothing else had.

John took the package, tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of his hand, then headed inside the house to try his luck. He positioned himself in front of his wife and stood fiddling nervously with the parcel, eyes downcast in sheepish embarrassment.

"Victoria? Well, what I've been trying to say is that … I don't give a hang if you never cook another meal in this house. And just having you here's enough, and it's even more than I deserve. And I don't know what I'd do without you." The words tumbled out of his mouth, sounding strained and awkward. He shoved the package into her hand. "Here. I thought you might like it."

He hurried away from her and stood by the stairs, watching her reaction out of the corner of his eye and pretending to be looking anywhere else but at her.

Victoria undid the string and opened the parcel, letting a length of silky pink ribbon spill out onto her palm. Abruptly, she got up and ran to the kitchen, saying, "I think I'll prepare supper now," in a voice that sounded suspiciously tearful.

John watched in amazement. He shook his head and gave one small chuckle. _Well, I'll be,_ he thought. He was never going to understand that woman, not to the end of his born days. Still … he sometimes suspected it just might be worth it.

* * *

It was close to midnight when she crept downstairs to find him.

He looked up from his corner of the sofa as she approached. "I thought you'd be asleep," he said.

"I was, but I woke and found you hadn't come to bed yet," said Victoria.

John shook his head. "Just not sleepy, I guess. Thought I'd stay down here till the fire went out. Finally got those ledgers finished, though."

He patted the seat next to him in invitation. With a smile, she came and sat next to him, leaning against his shoulder. John sat stiffly for a moment. His inclination was to put his arm around her shoulder, but it didn't quite feel natural to him. She'd like it, though, he knew that. So he moved just enough to slip his arm around her, and felt her all but melt against his side.

"Did you notice? I'm wearing your ribbon."

"My _ribbon?_" He was completely perplexed for a second. But the top of her head was about even with his chin, and he could just manage to see the pink hair ribbon Buck had brought from town. "Oh. Yes. Yeah, it looks real nice."

He felt guilty about his deception. She was happy because she thought he'd cared enough to send after something special just for her. He was taking credit for something his brother had done, and it didn't sit right.

"Victoria, I … well, that hair ribbon, that's not really from me. It was all Buck's doing and I didn't really have anything to do with it at all."

"Oh." Her voice was so quiet he wouldn't have heard her if it hadn't been the middle of the night with everything completely still in the house. But he did hear her, heard clearly the note of hurt and disappointment in the single syllable.

He tried to explain, but he could hear his words making things worse even as he said them. "Not that I wouldn't have got it for you if I'd thought about it, just … well, I just didn't know what you might _need_ with something like that."

Victoria moved away from him. With a tiny shrug she said, "It is not something I _need,_ my husband. But it makes me feel pretty."

John blinked in consternation. That was the most patently ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, even from her. "Why in the world would you need to _feel_ pretty? You've got a perfectly good mirror upstairs, that should tell you plain enough."

She stared up at him, eyes shining. "Oh, John," she whispered. She reached up and caressed his cheek with one hand, stroking her thumb gently against his lips. Then her hand slid behind him and he suddenly found his head being pulled downwards and her lips on his. He moaned and pulled her close against him.

When they eventually broke apart, he said rather breathlessly, "Now, what was that all about?"

Victoria gave him her most radiant smile. "Simply because I love you," she said. "And because one day, John Cannon, you will pay me a compliment that's actually on purpose."

John barely heard the last part, so stunned he was at the simple declaration of affection. He knew it, of course, had known it for some time. But actually hearing the words spoken out loud was a shock to the system. He had no idea that hearing her say it could make him feel so good … or so completely wretched. He was glad she didn't seem to need an answer, and that she was now resting her head against his chest instead of looking at him.

A stray thought wandered into John's mind as he sat watching the dying flames in the fireplace. He'd heard people say that when it came to marriage, no matter how big the quarrel, the making up afterwards made it all worthwhile. Maybe this was what they were talking about. The statement had always seemed to make a certain amount of sense in the abstract, but it never seemed to have much bearing on his own life. He hadn't quarrelled that much with Annalee, and when he did, it was seldom serious enough to even warrant making up. John sighed. He hadn't known how good he had it. Annalee hadn't liked conflict, and had always been more than willing to let him have his own way about everything, except where her son was concerned.

Victoria, on the other hand, _thrived_ on conflict. Not surprising, considering she was a Montoya. She and her brother both seemed to get great enjoyment out of their daily squabbles.

John, though, found little pleasure in their quarrels. They always left him feeling frustrated, often bewildered, and they usually ended, not with an apology, exactly, but with him admitting he was wrong. He wasn't used to being bested in a fight, and it never sat well with him. Of course, on those occasions when Victoria was wrong and could be made to admit it, she apologised so charmingly and so prettily that he couldn't help forgiving her instantly, no matter what the offense.

During their first weeks together, he had naturally assumed that the arguments would eventually stop once they got to know one another a little better and she learned the rules of the household. Now he wasn't so sure. Even though lately their quarrels were more like ordinary marital disagreements than the territorial battles they'd had at first, they hadn't really diminished much in number. It seemed increasingly likely that that would always be the case; their personalities simply weren't going to allow for anything else. Maybe he could learn to enjoy it the way she did, and hope that the making up afterwards really would be worth it.

She seemed awfully quiet now. Sure enough, he looked down and found that she had fallen asleep with her head on his chest, bare feet tucked under her robe. John felt a tremendous rush of affection for her, surprising in its intensity. He pulled her closer and rested his cheek against the top of her head. He'd held her in his arms many times, of course, but never once like this. Never this tenderly, the way a man should hold his wife. But then he'd never exactly been a tender man.

Before he had time to reflect on it further, he heard a door open upstairs. Buck clomped out with his boots on, probably headed for the kitchen. He stopped on the second step when he caught sight of the pair cuddled together on the sofa. He opened his mouth wide, just about to make some loud sound of unbridled delight, but John's look of furious warning stopped him just in time. Buck held up his hands and nodded. Holding one finger to his lips, he tiptoed – backwards – up the stairs and out of sight, leaving the mood thoroughly broken and his brother feeling like an absolute, utter fool.

* * *

Blue kept darting expectant looks at his father all through breakfast. He said nothing, just kept looking at him as if he were expecting something. Enough of that was starting to get on John's nerves.

"Something on your mind, Blue?" he asked, somewhat peevishly.

"Uh, no, Pa. It's nothing."

"Good. I've been thinking, I want you to ride over to Oracle today and talk to Digg Weems about that excess stock of his. You can start the offer at $7.50, but he won't take it. Offer eight seriously – nine if you absolutely have to, but not a cent more. We'll barely be making anything off that. Just don't let him put anything over on you."

Blue frowned. "'Course I won't, Pa. I'm not some wet behind the ears kid, ya know," he said, which made John snort.

"Well, boy, this is your chance to prove it," he said. He went on to specifically detail things he'd told his son dozens of times before, oblivious to the anger that now reddened his face.

Buck and Victoria exchanged a look over the table. "Uh, John," interrupted Buck, "I think he knows that already."

"I certainly hope so. Blue, it's a long ride to Oracle. I want you to get started right after breakfast."

"Sure thing, Pa. Just as soon as I spend a little time visitin' Ma's grave. Thought you might wanna come, too."

Quietly, Victoria rose from her chair and took the coffee pot into the kitchen.

John looked at him strangely, wondering why the sudden insistence. It was a good idea, though; his routine of visiting his wife's grave had fallen off sharply over the winter months. "Well, yeah, that sounds like a real nice idea. Not today, though. I've got strays to get after, and you've got a long ride ahead of you out to Weems's place. Got to get started right away, no time to—"

Blue stared at him in shock. He shook his head. "Pa, I've got to do it today. If you don't want to, that's up to you, but—"

"Of course I do, son, that's not the point. This business is more urgent."

"Pa, I won't even be back till sometime tomorrow!"

"Well, that's soon enough, isn't it? There's no hurry—"

At this point both John and Blue were on their feet, just talking over one another with one barely able to finish a sentence before the other interrupted.

Blue began to shout. "Yeah, well, tomorrow ain't—" He interrupted himself and lowered his voice. "Tomorrow ain't Ma's birthday. Today is."

John felt like somebody had given him a completely unexpected crack on the jaw. "Oh," was all he could manage to say. He looked down at his hands, curled into loose fists. After a moment, he looked up again to find his son glaring at him in accusation.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"Yeah," admitted John. "I, uh, I guess I did. She always did have to remind me. All I could ever remember was that her birthday is sometime in February."

Buck jumped in to try and head things off. "Blue Boy," he said, "you know your daddy cain't even remember his own birthday without somebody remindin' him. Your mama always thought it was funny, never seen her get mad at him for it."

Blue was good and mad, though. "How do you know she wasn't mad, Uncle Buck? How do you know she wasn't hurt every time he forgot, ever' time she had to remind him cos he couldn't be bothered to keep up with any dates 'cept the ones on his precious contracts."

"Now, wait a minute, there, Blue—"

"Well, it's true, ain't it? She always had to remind you about your wedding anniversary, too, didn't she? Bet you can't even remember what day she died, either."

John leaned on the table hard, glaring at his son. "Don't you ever say anything like that again, boy," he growled. "Don't you ever even imply it."

Blue threw his napkin down on his plate. "Fine, maybe that's the one day you do remember, the one that won't do her any good now. I bet you remember Victoria's birthday all right," he said with the sort of resentment he hadn't shown towards her in months.

"I don't even _know_ Victoria's birthday; she's never bothered to tell me!" And of course when he looked up, she was standing in the kitchen doorway with the fresh pot of coffee in her hands and that old, familiar hurt look on her face. John sighed deeply. He didn't feel like soothing over the hurt feelings of either one of them right now. He wanted to get as far away from the pair of them as he could.

On the spur of the moment he said, "Blue, you and Buck get on with rounding up those strays right away. I'll go on to Oracle myself."

"I can do it," Blue said, still sulking. At least he wasn't still shouting.

"I'm sure he can handle it, John," put in Buck. "Or I could go talk to Digg. He likes me real good."

"Oh, yeah, and you can talk business in the saloon, I suppose. That's the last thing we need. No, I'll go myself. You and Blue go round up the strays, and he can be back tonight in plenty of time to … do what he needs to do." He poured himself another half cup of hot coffee and downed it in one gulp. "Victoria, could you pack me some food for later? I'll be back sometime late tomorrow."

"Of course, my husband," she said, and turned around to swish off back into the kitchen. She was mad, obviously, not just hurt. Well, maybe she'd have time to get over it by the time he got back.

* * *

In spite of what he'd told Blue, or possibly because something Blue said had gotten to him, he made a point of stopping by Annalee's grave for a few minutes before he left.

He really didn't do it often enough anymore. During the first months she'd been gone, coming out here had been his only comfort. He'd felt close to her, or at least closer than he'd felt in the house that was rapidly taking on Victoria's touch instead of hers. He'd visited her grave at least once a day when he was home, sometimes far more often. Then his visits had fallen off to every other day or so, and now he was down to once a week at most.

Bit by bit, he was letting go of her, and in a way she was letting go of him as well. It was a strange sensation. He missed her just as much as he had from the beginning, but it no longer seemed quite as intensely painful.

_Oh, Annalee, _he thought. _I am so sorry._

Sorry for so many things. For bringing her here, first and foremost, and for not ordering her to keep away from the windows. Sorry for not being able to act the way she wanted him to with their son.

Sorry for marrying again when she was barely cold in her grave. And so very sorry for not being sorrier about that. Annalee had been dead barely six months, and here he was already feeling this way about another woman. John knew perfectly well that she would never have wanted him to be alone, wouldn't have wanted him to keep Victoria at a distance forever, but he wasn't at all sure she would have wanted him to move on this fast.

For a man of his age and temperament to be on the edge of falling in love at all was ridiculous. Ludicrous. But to fall in love with his second wife when his first wife was barely six months dead … that felt absolutely shameful.

He bowed his head and said a short prayer – partly for forgiveness. When he looked up, Victoria was standing there at the edge of his vision, holding a small canvas bag.

Her expression was unreadable, which he knew from experience wasn't ever a good thing. John took the bag from her and said, "Thank you, Victoria. You can expect me tomorrow."

"Hasta mañana, then, John."

He smiled. "Bye," he said, and bent to give her a small peck on the cheek.

As he mounted his horse, he saw her hand move up to her cheek where he'd kissed her. A tiny smile touched her lips. "John," she called after him.

He pulled up on the reins and turned around to see what she wanted. "Yes?"

"It's the sixth of April."

He drew a blank. "What is?"

"My birthday."

John laughed. "All right. Just you remind me on April 5th, then," he told her, and rode away with a smile on his face.

* * *

John was late getting in, having spent the last four hours or more dealing with a difficult foaling. Successful, though, thank heavens. Six more mares were due within the next few weeks, and he hoped all would be as well with them. He didn't think he could afford to lose even one.

Everyone else had already eaten and dispersed to parts unknown. He knew that Buck was in his room, nursing the broken leg that his own foolishness had earned him yesterday.

John opened the door of his own bedroom and started at the sight of his wife in the bathtub. Hurriedly, he closed the door and went to the closet, carefully avoiding looking in her direction. Nothing he hadn't seen before, of course, but he still felt awkward and embarrassed whenever he caught her bathing. Not that it ever bothered her in the slightest, but John was puritanical enough to be ashamed of his reaction to the sight of her body.

"You are late, my husband," she said. "Is there something wrong?"

He put his hat away on the closet shelf and carefully hung up his jacket. "Oh, no, there's nothing wrong. The, uh, bay mare threw a fine foal. Filly."

"That makes seven since I came to High Chaparral. We'll have many horses by spring."

John couldn't help smiling at the enthusiasm in her voice, but he wasn't sure he shared her optimism. What he wanted was to build up a herd known for quality, but right now they were still having to scrounge scrub cattle from any source they could, just to have enough to sell. That was no way to make a reputation. The only breeding stock they had on hand were the cows and the mares that Hernando Rivera had put to stud last year, before he sold out to John. At best, they were going to be living hand to mouth for a couple of years while the High Chaparral strain got established.

"Yeah," he said sardonically. "If we survive that long."

"Something _is_ wrong. What is it?"

He darted a glance in her direction, then looked away again. "Oh, nothing. At least, nothing I can do anything about."

"You're worried about the cattle we must buy from my father. Is that it?"

"Yes," John answered. He crossed the room to hang up his gun belt, then stood with his hand on the back of the chair, lost in his troubles. "I can't afford the price your father is asking, and I can't do without the breeding stock. I've got to have those cows here by the end of the month."

Victoria got out of the tub and towelled herself dry. As she reached for her robe, her husband judged it safe to look at her again. "Is the urgency so great?"

Perhaps not for the breeding stock, though he obviously didn't want to put that off any longer than absolutely necessary. But for the rest of the cattle he would buy from Don Sebastian, it was necessary to get them here as quickly as possible. Anything to avoid a repetition of the last minute scrounging of last fall. "Well, if I'm going to contract to sell beef to the army, I've got to have it on the hoof by spring," he told her. "But I can't bargain with your father because I've got to be in Fort Wiley day after tomorrow to negotiate with the army. Unless I can split myself into two men tonight, I'm in big trouble."

Curse Buck and his stupid, careless horsing around. This was all his fault. He'd been the one who was supposed to go to Mexico and bargain with Don Sebastian. He was good at dealing with him. He would have sat there and joked with Don Sebastian and drank his terrible wine and insulted him, quite unintentionally, and the two would have had such a good time together he could have chewed him down on the price at least two dollars a head. And now thanks to his stupid broken leg, he couldn't even leave the house, much less ride to Sonora.

"Why don't you send Blue to bargain with my father?" she suggested.

Ah, he should have known that was coming. Buck had suggested the idea while they were setting his leg, and he'd seen Victoria's reaction to it. John had dismissed the idea at the time, thinking the pain had affected his brother's reasoning, and he dismissed it now.

"Blue?" he scoffed. "Blue's just a boy."

She reacted fiercely, protectively, exactly the way his real mother would have done. She stood in front of his chair and gave him an angry stare. "You are wrong! He's a man, only you can't see it."

"Blue couldn't find his way into Mexico, let alone bring back the herd." John, lost in his own troubles, had little sympathy with her misplaced maternal instincts. He wasn't about to send an immature twenty-year-old boy up against the wily Don Sebastian. If Blue was the best they could do, Montoya would probably _raise_ the price. "How do you expect a boy like that to bargain with your father? Even I couldn't win against him."

John looked up in horror as he realised the implication of his words. He'd been so dispirited he hadn't even thought how that must sound to his wife. "I didn't mean that, Victoria. Not the way it sounded."

She looked so wounded he couldn't stand it. For an instant she looked like a woman who'd just been hit without warning, then her expression closed off. "I understand," she said. "Why not be honest about our marriage? Our political alliance."

It killed him to see her like that. Like she was giving up, just as he— Oh, God, what had he done? Political alliance. It had stopped being that months ago, even for him.

"Victoria—"

"I know you did not want a wife," she admitted. "I also know how much you loved Annalee. She's still your wife. I know that well."

John shook his head slowly, reluctantly. "No, that's not true. Annalee is dead."

As many times as he'd said the words over the past several months, somehow this felt like admitting it to himself for the first time.

Victoria must have heard that note of finality in his voice. She knelt in front of him and gazed at him with eagerness. "Is she? Truly, John?"

"Yes."

"I don't want to take her place," she told him. "I can't. I must make a place of my own in your heart. I know that too, John. I must speak to you when I feel you are doing wrong. It is my duty and my way. I can't change myself. Not even for you. I will not be Annalee. I am Victoria. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he answered, in a voice much softer and gentler than usual.

He looked at her with undisguised pride and admiration, as well as very deep affection. He couldn't find the words to even start to tell her that she already had a place in his heart. Just as there was a part of him that would always belong to Annalee alone, there was also now a part of him that was wholly Victoria's. At this point John couldn't imagine his life without her. And he did love her, in his own way. Maybe not the way she wanted, but it was so much more than he'd ever expected when they'd started this.

"Then listen to me, my husband. You are only one man. You can't do this all alone. No man can build a High Chaparral alone and survive. You must give a chance to your son to prove himself to you. Send Manolito with him. Let my brother bargain with my father. He has a way with him. You must do this."

John was unconvinced. "I would in a minute if I thought they could."

"How do you know they can't until you give them a chance?"

Her face held that look he was starting to know well, comprised of equal parts stubbornness and charm, and shockingly hard to resist. So, he gave in. What else could he do, really? It wasn't as if he had any choice. If the gambit didn't work, at least they'd tried.

"All right," he said. "I'll send 'em. First thing in the morning."

He took Victoria's hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze, gazing into her eyes for a long moment. Once again he wished he were the sort of man to whom words came easily. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he just couldn't do it.

Instead, he let go of her hands and went downstairs to find the plate she'd kept warm for him in the kitchen.

* * *

Sam Butler came to get him before he'd even quite finished his supper. Another emergency, fortunately minor, but it required his immediate attention. It was the middle of the night by the time John made it home again.

Upstairs, he found the tub had been emptied and removed. His wife was asleep, stretched out mostly on his side of the bed. He shook his head and smiled fondly as he looked down at her. She had a habit of moving over like that whenever John left for very long. More than once he'd offered to switch sides with her, but she always denied that she ever moved into his spot in the first place.

He debated waking her. Not because of where she was – it never mattered to him which side of the bed he slept on – but because he'd wanted to talk to her. Well, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he'd been hoping for a lot more than conversation, given that he was leaving for Fort Wiley tomorrow and wouldn't see her again for several days. But it was true that he didn't want to leave things as they were between them.

John was still bothered by that forlorn look on her face. Oh, why hadn't he _thought_ how it would sound to her before he made that crack about not being able to win against her father? He wouldn't have said something that hurtful even in the early days, when he'd been a lot more angry at Don Sebastian about the terms of their agreement.

He undressed and settled down on the other side of the bed, watching Victoria as she slept. One of her hands rested on the quilt, on top of her stomach. He moved closer to her and reached out his hand, then stopped as it hovered only an inch or two above his wife's. She was a light sleeper and it would only take one little touch to wake her. His hand hung there indecisively for a moment, then he balled it into a fist and reluctantly pulled it away from her. John turned on his back with a sigh. There seemed little point in waking her up just to fumble with words he'd never get right.

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Once on a Night in Spring"

**Author's Note:**_ Yeah, yeah, the chapter title, I know. In spite of the name, this chapter has absolutely nothing to do with the episode "Once on a Day in Spring". In fact, it's the only chapter in the whole thing that's set between episodes with nothing but original material. (I must admit it was kinda nice to get to the romantic stuff at last. Well, sort of romantic. John is, after all, still John. But now that he's finally figured it out, it's time to at least let his wife in on the secret.)_

It was dark when the men rode into the compound. John, like the rest of them, was sore, hungry, and bone-weary after three weeks on the trail. But they were home now, and the first cattle drive of the spring had been a complete success.

The single rifle shot to signal their homecoming had sounded before they even got near the gate. He expected Victoria to come running out to meet them, but there was no sign of her. As his horse trotted up to the porch, the front door opened and Vaquero stepped out. Alone. John's heart leapt into his throat. Where was his wife? Had something happened while they were gone? Beside him, Buck and Blue went silent. Mano, picking up on the tension in the atmosphere, instantly followed their lead.

He had a sudden, vivid memory of coming home late at night after a simple scouting trip, and being met by Vaquero in just the same way. John had greeted him with no sense of the horrifying news he'd been about to hear.

"_Señor," Vaquero had said in a quiet, strained voice. "While you were gone, there was an attack on the house. The Apache … I am sorry, Señor. Señora Cannon … she has been killed."_

John slid from his horse and hurried to the waiting man. Over the pounding of his heart, he managed to say, "Vaquero. Everything all right?" Somehow, his voice sounded fairly normal.

Vaquero nodded. "Yes, Mr. Cannon. La señora has gone up already for the evening, but she wished me to tell you there is stew warming in the kitchen for you, in case you returned tonight."

The others responded enthusiastically to the mention of food and headed in the house to fill their stomachs.

"Hey, John, ain't you gonna eat?"

Completely without conscious thought, he'd headed for the stairs instead of the dining room. To cover his embarrassment, he muttered something about needing to wash up first.

"But she ain't even here to gripe about it," Buck said.

Manolito slapped his arm with the back of his hand. "Tres semanas!" he reminded him.

As he half expected, Victoria was taking a bath. She turned as soon as he opened the bedroom door and greeted him with a beaming smile. "Oh, welcome home, my husband! I hoped you would be home tonight."

"Oh, Victoria, it's good to be home, believe me," he said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice.

His nerves were still jangled by the scare he'd just had. Even hearing that she was safe and sound wasn't confirmation enough. He needed to see her, touch her, hear her voice. For the first time in all these months John completely forgot his usual excessive modesty about not looking at her while she was bathing. Instead, he crossed the few steps to her side and laid a hand on her damp shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. Victoria laid her hand across his for just a moment and smiled up at her husband.

When he removed his hand, he left behind streaks of dusty mud on her wet shoulder.

"Sorry," he said, and they both laughed. "I'd offer to kiss you, but that'd get your face muddy, too."

"It matters very little, John. I can wash it off just like that." With one quick swipe of the sponge, the streaks disappeared.

"It'll keep," he said. He poured fresh water into the basin and gave his face and hands a thorough scrubbing. "Ah, that's a little better. Have to do for now anyway. Tell you what, Victoria, why don't you save that bathwater for me when you get done. I'll have a good cleanup after supper. After three weeks on the trail my clothes are about ready to walk off me by themselves." Like any sensible rancher he'd always been used to conserving water whenever possible, but out here in the desert it was infinitely more important. Most every bit of water they didn't drink got used twice over, in some way or other.

As he turned around, he saw that she was leaning against the side of the tub with both arms resting on the rim, just looking at him. Like that, with that look in her eyes, she was practically irresistible. For a long moment John could only stare back at her like a completely infatuated fool. Finally he managed to tear his eyes away from the sight. Clearing his throat, he told her, "Ah, speaking of supper, I better, uh, get down there and get some of that stew before the boys eat it all up."

* * *

"Would you like me to heat fresh water to wash your hair?"

"Please. If you don't mind."

As soon as Victoria left the room, John set about preparing for his bath. The first thing he did was move the lamp that she had next to the tub back to its usual place. For modesty's sake, he was glad that one lamp and the fireplace were the only sources of light in the room.

He laid his dirty clothes across the bed and slid into the rapidly cooling water. Cool or not, it felt wonderfully relaxing to his tired muscles. John found himself growing more and more tired as his body relaxed. That fright he'd had earlier had given him a tremendous burst of energy, and as he calmed down the effect was wearing off, leaving him totally spent. He was half asleep by the time Victoria returned with the water.

Used to his preferences by this time, she turned her back on him as he washed his hair, and bustled around the room doing little things in preparation for bed. She carefully went through the pockets of his clothes before putting them away in the laundry basket, just as any wife would do. Then she laid out a clean nightshirt for him and turned down the covers. To his surprise she came and sat down on the stool next to him. For a moment she sat looking at her hands instead of at John, then she rolled up the sleeves of her robe.

"May I?" she asked, reaching out her hand toward him.

John sat there motionless. She wasn't asking him if he wanted her to wash his back, she was asking if he would _let_ her. Asking if he would finally allow the sort of casual intimacy he'd discouraged up to now. He reached up and put the sponge in his wife's hand. "Yes," he said finally, though the single word stuck in his throat.

He was wide awake now. This was something that Annalee had done for him countless times over the years, but there was no mistaking Victoria's touch for hers. She made lazy little circles on his back with the soap, leaning into him with her left hand braced on his shoulder.

"That … feels nice, Victoria," he managed to say. Even by John's standards it was a tremendous understatement.

She squeezed water down his back to rinse off the soap. As she did, she said something very quietly in Spanish that he didn't quite get.

"Hmm?"

Victoria leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "I said, did you miss me as I missed you?"

"Oh."

John hesitated. He guessed he probably had, but he found it hard to say offhand. In all honesty he hadn't really given it much thought. When he was herding, he kept his mind completely on the job. In camp … well, he _had_ thought wistfully of how much better her cooking was than the grub they got on the trail. And every night he'd definitely thought how much more pleasant it was to sleep next to her than it was to sleep alongside Joe Butler's constant snoring. "Well," he said truthfully, "I am certainly glad to see you."

It was about as effusive as any of his other compliments, and it seemed to satisfy her.

Later, as they lay together between the freshly washed sheets, John thought he might have been a little too dismissive. He hadn't realised till he got home just how much he really had missed her company, and how much he'd missed the feel of her in his arms. And oh, how he'd missed this!

It never failed to amaze him that an act which had started out joyless, loveless, full of guilt and anger and shame, could evolve into this. That it could turn into something filled with passion and tenderness, something which brought them both so much pleasure. So much closeness. Long gone were those miserable nights when he'd mutter, "Thank you, Mrs. Cannon," and turn away from her in embarrassment.

"Oh, Victoria," he sighed, nestling his head against her neck. "What do you think? Did I miss you?"

"Oh, I believe so, my husband," she said happily. Her fingernails scratched gently up and down the skin of his back. "And I also think…" Her voice trailed off.

"You think what?"

Victoria rested her head against his and said, "I think perhaps I'm beginning to mean something to you."

He kissed her shoulder. "I think you're beginning to mean everything to me."

* * *

There was always plenty of paperwork to be dealt with the right after a big drive. John's arithmetic was plenty good enough to deal with the ranch's bookkeeping, but it was a chore he hated. It was fiddly, it took hours that he'd rather spend outside working – or if he saved it for the evening, hours that he'd rather spend with his family – and there was absolutely no one he could trust to do it for him.

And it made him notoriously grouchy.

Therefore, when he came down the stairs whistling – actually whistling, what in the world was wrong with him? – after a whole day of staying inside working on records and ledgers, he wasn't surprised at his son's mystified reaction. They met at the bottom of the stairs, John coming down and Blue on his way from the dining room to the front door. Blue stopped in his tracks and stared at him, mouth agape.

John stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and stared back at him. "Something the matter, son?"

"Huh?" That seemed to shake him out of his daze. "No, Pa. Well, uh, I … No, Pa."

Still looking at his father oddly, he continued out to the porch. John rolled his eyes and headed for the comfort of the sofa. He was no longer whistling, though.

Through the open door he could hear his son speaking to Blue and Manolito. "What in the world is going on with him?"

"Your daddy? Why? What's wrong with him?"

"Well, that's what I wanna know, Uncle Buck. Smilin' all through dinner, whistling in the house. And he was here working on the books all day long and never once bit anybody's head off."

John had no trouble picturing the knowing smile on his brother-in-law's face as he replied, "He's falling in love with her, can you not tell?"

"In love?" scoffed Blue. "Come on, Mano. Big John? Anyway, he's too old for that sort of thing."

His father scowled at that, and let out a sigh of irritation. Sometimes, that boy…!

"Blue, if you think anyone is ever 'too old' for love," said Manolito, making it sound as though he were decades older than Blue instead of a few years, "then you are too young."

John had had about enough of this discussion of his private affairs. He got to his feet and took two steps before he stopped. For some reason, his mind conjured up the sound of his mother's voice from thirty years ago or more. "Eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves." She'd been scolding Buck at the time, for furiously objecting that he wasn't too young for whatever it was they were planning on excluding him from, but it could just as well apply to John himself now. He wasn't technically eavesdropping – it was his house, after all – but he sat back down, anyway. Wasn't like he wanted his good mood spoiled.

At least maybe now Mano would stop watching him so curiously, and Buck would stop his infernal matchmaking and his oh-so-helpful advice.

"I hope Brother John's not just now gettin' around to figgerin' it out for hisself," Buck said. "Why, I knowed months ago he was plumb crazy about Victoria."

Good old helpful Brother Buck.

John slammed his hand down on the seat next to him, muttering in irritation. He got up once and for all and headed for the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

Victoria, finishing up the last of the dishes, said, "I could have brought you a cup of coffee in the living room, John."

"That's all right. The living room is too close to those braying jackasses on the front porch."

She laughed. "Your brother or my brother?"

"Yes," he said inclusively, which got another laugh from her.

And just like that, his good mood came back.

She dried her hands and carefully put everything away before pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting across from him. She reached across the table and touched his hand. John gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. "This is very different from the first time we sat together in the kitchen," she said. "Which I believe was also the last time."

John looked at her for a moment, puzzled. "Ah," he said finally. "Our first quarrel."

"I thought it was the end of everything. I wanted to pack my things and go home to my father."

"Well," said John. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Oh, so am I," she said fervently.

That night there had been tears in her eyes, and he'd been moved to tenderness by the sight. Tonight, instead of tears there was a glow of happiness that he knew was mirrored in his own eyes as he looked at her, and the feeling of tenderness was far deeper.

Buck was right about one thing: he was "plumb crazy" about Victoria. But he couldn't have been more wrong about John only just now figuring it out for himself. He'd known it for quite some time, even if he hadn't been willing to admit it.

He knew it in the way she grew more precious to him with every passing day, in the way he was beginning to actually enjoy her attempts to ride roughshod over him much of the time, knew it in the way his pulse raced and his heart thundered in his chest whenever she so much as looked at him. It wasn't simple physical attraction, though that was intense to say the least. It wasn't just that he respected her opinions and her quick wit, or that he enjoyed her company, or even that he was so deeply touched by her obvious love for him. It was all of those things and none of them.

It was probably just because she was Victoria, and there was no one else in the world like her.

"Feel like an early night, Victoria?" he asked her.

A blush flared on her cheeks, though he hadn't specifically meant what she thought. "If you like, my husband," she agreed.

They extinguished the downstairs lights, leaving only the candles in the sconces nearest the front door burning, and went upstairs arm in arm. The "braying jackasses" on the veranda were free to think whatever salacious thoughts they wanted.

* * *

Things began to improve a great deal for the High Chaparral over the course of the spring. The rest of the brood mares foaled without incident, and John and Buck managed to catch and tame a handsome buckskin stallion that sold for nearly eighty dollars – well over the price of an average saddle horse. The cattle acquired from Don Sebastian had so far all proved fertile. Next year or two would tell what kind of quality they'd get out of them.

Without Tanner's outfit around, John had far less trouble acquiring the herds he needed to supply the army contracts. And there were other, smaller buyers now, too. He was becoming known in the area instead of being "that upstart newcomer". Better still, he was becoming known for being fair and conscientious, and for being able to supply decent quality beef. Not as high quality as he'd like, not yet, but that would come soon enough.

They played host to Benito Juarez shortly before his return to power, and even helped foil an attempt on his life. Perhaps one day it would come in handy to be on good terms with the President of Mexico.

Tucson finally got its first bank, thanks in no small part to John's efforts. Just knowing he no longer had to keep large sums of money at home in his safe right after a big sale took a tremendous load off his mind. Having that much cash on hand was a security risk, and he'd never liked having to do it. Not to mention what an asset a bank would be to the community. It was a fine first step toward the sort of growth he wanted for the territory.

On a more personal level, the Cannons had a few ups and downs. Blue got into a few fairly serious scrapes, though at least this time he wasn't directly to blame. Buck found himself another unhappily married young woman, then briefly fell into the clutches of a wily female con artist, who very nearly suckered him into marriage.

After that incident, Victoria had wasted no time pointing out that her husband should be very grateful to be married to her, because an eligible widower would have been a much more tempting target than his brother. John ridiculed the very idea of such a thing. Anyway, he already had plenty of reasons to be thankful for Victoria. As the spring wore on into summer and then into fall, his love for her deepened, turned into a sort of quiet happiness that he would have found incomprehensible last year.

* * *

It was ironic that he found Annalee's journal on the anniversary of the day he'd first met Victoria.

He was packing to spend a couple of days in Tucson to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and couldn't find his tie. He called downstairs to his wife, but she was busy giving her brother a verbal walloping and didn't come up to help him right away. John looked everywhere he could think of for the confounded thing: chest of drawers, wardrobe, everywhere. Finally in desperation he pulled out the drawers of the nightstands. The diary was stuck at the very back, where Victoria had stuffed it many months ago when he'd caught her looking at it and raged at her.

He sat down on the bed and opened the book with slightly trembling hands. The sight of the long-familiar handwriting hit him hard. His first impulse was to shove the thing back in the drawer or better yet, pack it away in her trunk in the storage room with all the rest of her things. But he caught a few words and just couldn't help himself. She was beyond being harmed by the lack of privacy, and he suddenly needed to know what was going through her head in the last months of her life.

"John made it home last night, and he had Buck with him! It was a wonderful surprise, especially for Billy. I don't think he has calmed down yet. He's always adored his uncle, and it's been at least five years since we've seen or heard of him…

"Of course he's very enthusiastic about John's scheme for settling in the Arizona Territory. I knew as soon as I saw the pair of them that that was the last bit of hope gone. There will be no changing John's mind now, not that there was much chance of it to begin with…"

John was surprised by the complaints he found. He'd known that Annalee had been unenthusiastic about settling in Arizona, but she had never said a word to him to indicate how much she truly disliked the idea. Maybe if she had she might still be alive. No, no, that wasn't true. He wouldn't have been talked out of it, even if she had been the sort of woman to try and talk him out of anything he wanted.

He hadn't known that she had tried until the very last minute to talk her stepmother into leaving Missouri and coming with them. He recalled her mentioning the idea once, but hadn't thought anything about it. After all, if the woman refused to move fifty-four miles and one state line to join her family after her husband's death, she was hardly going to consent to move a thousand miles away to Arizona. Shame, in a way. Blue had always been fond of his grandmother, and she could have seen her son one last time. Maybe she could have even prevented what happened to him. Still … would have added a lot more complications to the thing with Victoria, and those had been almost insurmountable as it was.

He flipped pages in the diary, finding a random entry written during their journey through Texas.

"We had a little trouble with the Comanches today. That's how John put it. 'A little trouble.' Five of them attacked our wagon, but the men fought them off. I was so proud of Billy Blue – so brave! I don't understand how his father could ever think otherwise. I was not brave. I hid in the wagon until they'd gone, and had to be pulled out, shaking like a leaf. I've never been so scared. It certainly did not help to hear Buck point out that he's heard the Apaches in Arizona are even worse."

John squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, no, he thought. Oh, God. No.

The next entry he found was a lighthearted complaint about the lack of privacy on the journey: "As much as I love my family, sometimes all I want is to be alone with my husband for just a little while."

John laughed out loud, in spite of the tears glistening in his eyes. He'd had similar frustrations himself. The only relief they had was to occasionally take a walk together, arm in arm, while the horses were being rested. At least it got them away from the others for five or ten minutes.

The entries increased in number after their arrival. He didn't attempt to read all of them, but the ones he did grew increasingly dark in tone. She'd felt frustrated and afraid, but she'd never once let him see it.

One, obviously written at a particularly low moment, talked about how many times she'd wanted to pack up her things and go back east as quickly as possible. He wished she had followed her instincts instead of trying to be strong for his benefit. She'd still be alive, and could probably have joined him again by now. There were still many dangers, but it was so much better than it had been a year ago.

Part of the entry simply confused him. "I know he loves me, I'm sure of it, but I never see it in his glance, never feel it in a tender touch and I need that so." Now, he was sure that there had been touches and glances between them. He might not be the tender, romantic sort, but he had never been shy about holding her, touching her hand or her shoulder, smiling at her.

Then again, he'd apparently hidden the fact that he was head over heels for Victoria so well that she had honestly believed he hadn't cared at all. Maybe it was the same with Annalee.

He skipped to the last entry, the night he last told her he loved her. The night she died.

"My wonderful, loving husband told me tonight that he wants me to go away from here, back to Kansas. He wants me to be safe. Strangely, that makes me feel stronger than anything else has done. I told him that I wouldn't leave him and Billy Blue. I think it's the right decision. Things are bad here now, but they will get better…

"I wish the men would come home soon. I keep hearing noises outside, like children crying. It must just be my imagination, but I keep thinking about those poor little Ward children."

"Oh, dear God," said John, and buried his face in his hands. Tears filled his eyes and his wide shoulders shook with one sob.

He had thought all this was behind him, that he was finished with the grieving process. He still loved her, he still missed her, but it had been probably six months or more since the last time he'd found her memory too painful to bear. And yet, just reading her words brought it all back to him like a knife in the heart.

Thankfully, he had himself under control by the time Victoria came in.

"Did you need something, John?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, Victoria," he said, getting to his feet. His voice sounded slightly hollow to his ears. "Can't find that blasted tie anywhere. I've already looked in the closet and the drawers and everyplace else I can think of."

She went to the chest of drawers, opened one, and pulled out a long strip of black silk. One eyebrow cocked, she stood smirking at him with the tie dangling from her fingers.

John frowned. "I looked in that drawer twice," he sighed. "I swear it wasn't there before. Victoria, you are a marvel."

She laughed delightedly, and came over and put her arms around him. "I'm happy you know that, my husband."

He pulled her closer, resting his cheek on the top of her head. "Oh, I do know it. Believe me, I do know."

He mustn't make the same mistake with her that he'd made with Annalee. He was going to have to overcome his natural reserve and actually tell her how he felt about her once in awhile, not just blithely assume that she knew it and that the knowledge alone would be enough.

* * *

The hotel in Tucson was thankfully much quieter than it had been when they'd stayed there over the Fourth of July festivities. The dining room wasn't too crowded, and the food and wine were fairly decent. It might only be Tucson, but all in all, their anniversary was turning out to be a rather pleasant celebration.

"It's too bad we have no champagne to celebrate," Victoria was saying.

John finished his mouthful of braised beef and remarked, "This is more a beer and whiskey town. If they did have champagne here, it probably wouldn't be very good. Not that I'd know the difference," he added as an afterthought.

"You've never had it?"

"No, not that I know of," he said. That … friend of hers, that Lord Ashbury had brought champagne with him, but John hadn't tasted it. He'd have probably choked on it if he tried.

It was strange to remember that their backgrounds were so different. Most of the time it was so inconsequential that John simply never bothered to give it a thought, but every once in awhile she would mention something that reminded him abruptly that he had married a rich man's daughter. Her father's ostentatious wealth never seemed to have much to do with her in John's mind. But she was an educated woman, a sophisticated woman who had been to Europe, who had been used to champagne and caviar and all kinds of things he would never experience. Never particularly wanted to experience, for that matter. "I suppose you had it every day when your father took you to Europe."

"Oh, yes, every day. Or almost every day." Victoria tilted her head slightly and looked at her husband through narrowed eyes. "I wonder if you would like Europe, John."

He snorted. "I very much doubt it," he said. "Not that I'll ever get the chance to find out. I hope you don't miss it too much, Victoria. If you wanted champagne and European tours, I'm afraid you married the wrong man."

Three men John had never seen before entered the dining room just then. One of the strangers looked Victoria up and down in a revoltingly insolent manner, then looked at John with a sort of wry amusement before joining his companions at their table. He gave the interloper a furious scowl. Victoria fortunately didn't seem to have noticed anything of the exchange.

Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at John. "No, I married the right man," she assured him. "I've been to Europe twice, and that is enough. The High Chaparral is much nicer."

"Nicer with you there, that's for sure."

She blushed ever so slightly and looked down at her plate. "I told you that you would one day give me a compliment that was not by accident."

It was John's turn to be embarrassed. "Ohh," he growled. "Stop fishing, Mrs. Cannon. I've given you lots of compliments."

"Yes, Mr. Cannon, but most of them of them you didn't know were compliments until after you said them to me," she said pertly, and they both laughed.

Still grinning, he glanced around the room and caught sight of the three strangers. His grin faded. They were all young, one in his mid-thirties and the others probably around Victoria's age. They seemed to be caught up in their own conversation, but they kept looking over at the Cannons and chuckling. John wanted to invite them outside and teach them all better manners, but he wasn't about to ruin Victoria's anniversary celebration.

He knew what they were laughing at, of course. He'd known men who, at an age when they should have known better, had made fools of themselves for the love of some pretty young thing. He'd always been ever so slightly contemptuous of those men, or at least impatient with their foolishness. He'd thought himself immune to that sort of nonsense. Safe because he was happily married to a good, sensible, loving woman his own age.

And now suddenly here he was happily married to another good, loving woman who happened to be twenty years younger than he was. And there was no denying it, he was foolish about her. He was just as bad as any of the men he'd judged fools back then.

Maybe he deserved to be laughed at by a bunch of ill-mannered louts, but he didn't have to like it. He finished up the last of his meal and rose, offering his hand to Victoria. "Are you ready to go upstairs, dear?" he asked.

* * *

Up in their room, she sat at the dressing table and unpinned her hair. "John, why were those men staring at us in the dining room?"

Of course it was too much to hope that she hadn't noticed. Still, he didn't want to tell her the real reason. It would just make her angry, and he didn't want to spoil her celebratory mood.

"Oh," he said, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders, "they were just envying me for having the prettiest wife in the territory." He leaned down slightly to look at his reflection in the mirror alongside hers. Really, as a couple they didn't look so ridiculous.

She narrowed her eyes flirtatiously. "And have you seen every wife in the territory to know this?" she asked, directing the question to his image in the glass.

"No. But I've seen mine. That's enough."

Victoria laughed. "I think perhaps you might be a little – what's the word in English I am looking for? Prejudiced? – on my behalf."

"Maybe. But there's nothing wrong with my eyesight, you know." It was less traumatic than he imagined to add, "Not unless I really am so much in love I can't see straight."

His tone was light, still bantering, and he expected to get one of her delighted little laughs in return. Instead, she turned around on the stool and looked up at him gravely. Her expression was absolutely serious.

"John," she whispered, so softly that the word barely came out at all. "Do you mean that?"

He thought of the importance of the vow he'd made to himself the day before. Never to leave it until it was too late.

"Yes," he said. He pulled her to her feet and into his arms, kissing her deeply.

Next up: final chapter - "Threshold of Courage"


	7. Chapter Seven: Threshold of Courage

**Author's Notes:**_ So, at last here we are, the final chapter. Whew! A long chapter, too, although except for the epilogue part it's really just a straightforward novelisation of "Threshold of Courage". In actual fact, the previous chapter was originally planned to be the ending of the story; it seemed sufficient in my mind to get John and Victoria to the point where they truly loved each other, realised it, and actually dared articulate it. (Plus, having started with their engagement, their wedding anniversary seemed a good, symmetrical place to end.) Then a reviewer asked about how I planned to handle this episode, and the idea wouldn't let go of me. It seemed a much better idea to end on a chapter that illustrates the lengths they would go to for one another. _

_I just want to say a heartfelt thanks to everybody who reviewed this story. I haven't always said thanks individually, but I've always been grateful, believe me. Thanks for sharing the journey with me, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride. I do have one more story to tell (more about the whole family), but it's still stewing in my head at the moment._

Chapter Seven:

"Threshold of Courage"

John had never been a believer in precognition. Any time someone claimed they had "a feeling" that something bad was going to happen, he rolled his eyes at the idiocy of the claim. In his experience, you either knew something was about to happen because the signs were there, or you didn't know at all and got blindsided. Annalee's death had blindsided him in just such a way. He'd had no earthly idea when he kissed her goodnight that it would be the last time he ever saw her alive.

Victoria's kidnapping hit him out of nowhere just the same way. He hadn't even realised that she had gone anyplace till Buck and Sam caught him on the side porch to ask.

Buck wore a slightly worried expression as he called to his brother. "John, is Victoria home? Is she all right?"

John, more interested in the whetstone he'd come out to look for, thought nothing of the question. "Yeah, she's fine. She's in the house." At least that was where she'd been the last time he saw her, and he no reason to think otherwise.

"That's good. We just found her horse. That old mare, old Irene? She spooked, I guess."

John felt a slight trace of concern. He looked over at Vaquero, who had been out here dipping candles all morning. "Vaquero, did Mrs. Cannon ride out of here?"

"Si, Señor, with Manolito."

"Where'd they ride to?"

"They rode to the old chapel, Señor. She wanted to pray to the Virgin of Guadalupe. For a special favour."

He gave them a look that was clearly supposed to be of some import, but any significance was lost on John and Buck. They both smiled and put it down to "one of those Catholic things". They'd been raised Presbyterian, by the sort of parents who took the boys to church whenever they had time and the weather was good enough to get into town on a Sunday. Christians, certainly, but they'd never been particularly churchy folk.

Victoria's devout Catholicism was a mystery to her husband. She believed in saints, and had a particular devotion to the Virgin Mary – at least that's what John _thought_ she meant by the Virgin of Guadalupe – and he sometimes caught her praying with her string of wooden beads before bed. She never bothered to explain and he never bothered to ask. Once a month when the priest from the Tucson mission was due for his visit she and her brother, or occasionally one of the hands if Manolito was unavailable, would make the twenty mile journey southwest to the chapel of the old Pima mission. There she worshipped in the company of assorted Arizona Mexicans, converted Indians, and Irish miners.

"Oh," John said. "Well, I guess Manolito was just skylarking. They're probably both on foot by now. I hope they're pretty tired." That'd be what they both deserved for pulling a stunt like this, riding off without telling anyone.

Buck smiled. "John, just in case, you want me to round up some of the boys?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea. Sam and I'll ride over to the chapel." He was slightly concerned in spite of himself. Oh, there was no reason to think she wouldn't be perfectly fine of course, especially this close to winter, but he of all people could be forgiven for being a touch overprotective towards a beloved wife.

* * *

He had his first real inkling that something was really wrong when he and Sam rode through the gates of the old chapel. They saw the old caretaker leaning over a motionless body on the ground. With a shock, John recognised the still form of his brother-in-law.

The man looked up at them with a deeply worried look on his face. "Thank God you are here, Señor," he said. "You are the lady's husband, yes?"

Mano was just starting to regain consciousness. John took off his brown leather vest and folded it up to use as a pillow under his brother-in-law's head while he examined the wound. They were lucky; the wound was bleeding heavily, but the bullet had barely creased his skull. He would live.

Sam, meanwhile, took the old caretaker over to a bench in the shade and sat him down gently, trying to get something sensible out of him. He kept babbling about the men who had been there, who had taken Victoria. He had offered them the money he had been saving for a chapel bell, but they had refused. The man with the hook hadn't been interested in money. "They took the beautiful lady in the wagon…"

John's expression was somber. This was serious. Even for a kidnapping this was serious. If they were after ransom, they wouldn't say no to any additional money that came their way.

He had to get after them immediately. If he were to save his wife there was no time to lose.

He ordered Sam to stay behind with Mano. "You take care of him. When the boys get here you have 'em follow those wagon tracks. I'll go ahead. If the tracks run out, I'll mark a trail."

As he rode out, he pondered the caretaker's description of the man with the hook. It just added to the sense of unreality he was already feeling. He remembered the stories their father used to tell Buck when he was a little boy, about murderous pirates whose missing hands had been replaced by gleaming steel hooks. John supposed he'd tried to tell him, too, when he was younger, but John had never been much of a one for stories.

But this was no fairy story, no pirate sailing the high seas. This was a real man who, for whatever reason, had taken Victoria. This was a man John was going to hunt down and kill.

* * *

He lost the tracks several times as he neared the rocky areas at the base of the mountains, but always managed to pick them up again after a while. Always he was conscientious about marking his own passage in the areas where the tracks disappeared for a time. The men might be as much as an hour or even two hours behind him, but he was sure their help would be needed.

The caretaker had said there were four men. Four horses, in addition to the one they'd hitched to Victoria's wagon. Why the change? Just to send her horse home to get his attention? They certainly weren't going to any lengths to disguise their trail. They could have surely found someone to deliver a ransom note to him. Then again, he'd already ruled out ransom. Why, then? Revenge? Someone who had a vengeance against either Don Sebastian or himself? But if—

_No,_ he chided himself. Too much time to think, riding by himself. Their reasons didn't matter, not in the slightest. All that mattered was getting to them before his wife was harmed. Her life, her safety, that was the only important thing.

John rode deeper into the mountains, into unfamiliar territory. This wasn't Geronimo's territory, and he didn't think it was the place Cochise wintered with his people, but he couldn't rule out some of the other chiefs. He kept a wary eye out. With any luck, Victoria's captors would do the same.

He rode beneath the limbs of a massive dead tree, its branches curving all the way to the ground in a graceful arc. There he left his horse, dismounting to check out the nearby ravine.

At first he saw nothing. Then, turning, his eye caught a glimpse of something that might be—Oh, Lord, no. He could see the wheel of a wagon down there.

"Oh, no," he moaned. "Victoria!"

The thought that the wreck could have been at the bottom of that ravine for years never even entered his mind. It was too far away to see clearly, but even so he _knew_ that it was the little wagon he'd bought from Ed Henderson just for her use. John scurried down into the ravine, making his way over the boulders as quickly as he dared, hoping against hope that he would find her alive at the bottom.

He checked out the wreckage. Definitely recent, definitely Victoria's wagon, but there was no sign at all of Victoria. No sign of anyone, dead or alive. Well, that was better than he feared. She was presumably still alive, then. If she was alive, then he would find her. He would save her, somehow or other, because the alternative was unthinkable.

Once he was able to breathe again, to think a little more clearly, he noticed there was no sign of a horse, either. The kidnappers had unhitched it before pushing the wagon over the edge of the rocks. That might be a good sign. No, that _was_ a good sign. Either they were trying to hide the wagon so they'd be more difficult to follow, or he was meant to find it. It had to be the latter, it just had to be. Up to now, they hadn't bothered even trying to disguise their trail. They wanted him to follow.

Most likely they were somewhere nearby, watching his every move. John looked up to the edge of the ravine, scanning the horizon in the direction from which he'd just come. Where were they, then?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, a voice echoed out of nowhere, the sound seeming to come from every direction at once. "She's up here, Cannon!"

John drew his gun, looking all around.

"You want her dead, Cannon?" the voice called again. "Use your gun and that's what she'll be."

So they were definitely watching him. He called his wife's name. "Victoria!"

Instantly, a shot rang out. John's heart seemed to stop until he heard her voice calling him.

"John!" Just the one word, just his name echoing crazily around the ravine.

Hurriedly, he made his way back up over the boulders. Underneath the sloping limbs of the old tree, his horse lay dead. Ah. So that was the shot he'd heard. John spared no thought for the gelding itself, took no time even to be glad that his best horse had come up lame last night and so was spared this one's fate.

He checked his gun, grabbed the rifle and canteen off the saddle and slung them over his shoulders. He looked all around him, trying to figure out which direction he should go. They'd be watching him, obviously. Sure enough, as he began to climb a rifle shot whizzed past his shoulder.

"I'm here," he yelled. "You come and get me."

No one came after him, and there were no more shots fired. He kept climbing in the direction the rifle shot had come from.

It was surprisingly hot for the season and the altitude, and John was sweating profusely. He had his shirt open, and though the air blowing underneath the coarsely woven fabric was a blessed relief, it was only a secondary effect. As he climbed, he tore off strips of fabric from the bottom of his shirt, tying them around branches or anything else that would keep them visible for Buck and the others when they came.

Breathing hard, John sat down on a rock to take a moment's rest. He'd been climbing now for at least a couple of hours. He wanted nothing more than to keep going, but he knew it wouldn't do Victoria any good if he collapsed right there on the trail. He lifted the canteen to his lips. Before he could take a sip, someone up above shot it out of his hands and it went spinning away down the slope, spilling every drop of the precious water.

He scrambled for the shelter of an overhanging boulder, scanning the terrain carefully. Seeing no one, he shouldered his rifle and ventured out to get a better look. Nothing. No one took a pot shot at him, no one called to him. What were they up to? What did they _want_ from him?

* * *

The sun was high overhead. Three o'clock or thereabouts. Thankfully the heat was becoming less intense as John made his way into the dense undergrowth of the forest, sheltered by tall, shadowy pines. He left another strip of cloth tied to a low-hanging branch of a pine tree.

Suddenly, he stopped walking and sniffed the air. Was he imagining things?

No. No, he wasn't. The unmistakeable smell of coffee filled the air. He followed the scent back to a small clearing in the rocks. There he found an abandoned campfire, on which sat a pot of coffee and a pan of beans. A half-eaten plateful of the beans sat on the ground, as if hastily abandoned. Perhaps the food had been left by a sentry, run off to tell his boss John was coming.

He was slightly suspicious – after all, they could have poisoned the food and deliberately left it for him – but he had no choice but to take the risk. Breakfast was many hours ago, and it had been quite some time since he last had a sip of water. The sweat had wicked away most of the moisture from his body and he was beginning to sway on his feet. He poured coffee into the waiting cup and took a sip, but immediately spat it back out on the ground.

"Salt," he growled. "Salt!"

He tasted the beans. Sure enough, same result: salted beyond toleration. In disgust, he threw the spoon back down in the pan. John was so hungry and thirsty by this point he was tempted to choke it all down in spite of the taste, but he knew better than that. The excess salt would just get rid of his body's little remaining moisture that much faster.

He caught the glint off a pair of binoculars and looked up. They were right up there, watching him.

He heard Victoria call to him. "John! Go back, John!"

She said nothing else, and he knew her captors must have shut her up. Dragged her away, covered her mouth, put a gun to her head. Something horrible. Something no woman should ever have to go through, especially not her. He had been beyond emotion for a while now, just concentrating on moving forwards, but this sent the heat of rage through him. He got up and grabbed his rifle.

"I'll kill you!" he shouted. "Whoever you are."

* * *

Night fell and he had to stop. There was no way he could keep tracking them through the darkness. Maybe if he could manage to get a little sleep, he would be in better shape to start fresh in the morning. He lay down with his head against a boulder.

Just before he managed to doze off, he heard footsteps approach. John's revolver was already in his hand and levelled at the intruder's head.

The man he'd heard about, the man with the hook for a hand, stood over him and said, "You're holding up fairly well."

"I'll do. Where's my wife?"

The man knelt by him, regarding him steadily. The light of the full moon illuminated the unfamiliar face of a heavyset man with a moustache. There was a large, puckered scar underneath his left eye, which he emphasised by habitually rubbing the area with the side of the blunt steel hook. "Don't you remember me, Captain Cannon?" he asked.

_Captain _Cannon? John was appalled. He hadn't been called that since the day he left the army. Captain John Cannon of the United States Cavalry had little enough to do with John Cannon of the High Chaparral.

"I remember you well enough," the man continued. "Take a good look, sir. Don't tell me you can't remember Petersburg. I left my hand there. You cut it off. You took away my arm."

John wasn't going to play his game. Whether or not they'd fought one another at Petersburg was of no importance now. Now, in the present, Victoria was all that mattered. "You've got my wife. Where is she?"

A second man, leaning against a tree in the shadows, spoke up reassuringly. "Your wife's all right, Mr. Cannon."

John wasn't sure whether to believe him or not, but he felt a certain relief at the words anyway. As long as she was alive, he could still save her.

The man with the hook snapped at him angrily. "Stay out of this. Nobody shares any part of this but me."

"Take it easy, Finn," the younger man said, trying to soothe him.

"I'm not Finn!" he shouted. "I'm Captain Finley Carr, Army of Northern Virginia. Now do you remember me, sir?"

John didn't. He remembered the faces and the names of his friends and comrades, not the men he had killed. Not the men he had left maimed, with their blood splattered on their grey uniforms. Not this man nor any other of them. He had blocked their faces out of his mind the day he headed back to Kansas, tamping down their memories violently; he'd never be able to sleep if he hadn't.

"The war ended for me at Appomattox," he said carefully.

"For _you?"_

"For _all_ of us. For Lee, for Grant, for every mother's son who fought on either side. My own brother, Buck, fought for the Confederacy. It wasn't easy for any of us. Winner, loser, Buck, or me." Buck had been notably less successful in putting the war behind him than John had, but he knew he wasn't plagued with it every moment of his life the way this man clearly was.

Carr's bitterness was clear in his voice as he pointed out, "You did all right."

He wasn't about to let him think he'd come out with no losses. And he wasn't about to let him get away from the only thing which was really important right now. "I came out here to forget the things that you wanna remember. I brought a gentle woman with me. I buried her. But I won't bury another one, Carr. Where is she?"

"You have two choices, Captain. Either hand me that gun and come with me, or shoot me here and go up there and collect what's left of your wife."

John hesitated, thinking it over. Carr meant to kill him, that much was obvious. Probably Victoria as well. But going with him was the only chance now he had to save her. He clicked the safety back on and handed over the gun. Carr took it with his right hand and hung it from his hook, dangling it in front of John tauntingly.

"We're gonna do it all over again," he said. "Petersburg. Only this time you're gonna be the one that'll run. Now if you please, sir."

John got to his feet.

* * *

Their camp was in a clearing further up the mountain, set up on a plateau. It was still dark when they arrived, and even though the moon was bright he couldn't make out most of the details. There were several tents set up, he could see that much.

At the sound of his voice, Victoria ran out of one of the tents. The guard grabbed her, shoving her roughly back inside. Automatically, John rushed forward, but Carr held his own gun to the back of his head. "If you do that, Captain," he said softly, "she won't last this night."

John stopped immediately, and allowed himself to be led over to a cage they'd fashioned from timbers and locked inside it. During the night he tried to sleep, but found it almost impossible. He was too worried about what would happen to them in the morning. When he did doze off for a few minutes, someone would come along and poke him with the nose of a rifle to wake him up.

In the morning he was ignored completely. Carr's men moved about the camp without looking at him. Whenever one of them passed by the cage he would demand his wife, water, and food, in that order.

The young man who had been with Carr last night finally approached the cage and undid the padlock. "Finn says you can see your wife now," he told him. "Ten minutes, Finn says."

His way of speaking of Carr, both familiar and childishly admiring, confirmed John's suspicions that this was his younger brother. He couldn't for the life of him imagine Buck speaking that way of him, and he wouldn't have wanted him to. "You always do everything Finn says, boy?"

"My name's Stacy, not 'boy', Captain Cannon," he said, with the first display of gumption he'd seen from him. He opened the door of the cage and leaned in. In a tone that was almost apologetic he said, "I don't like this any more than you do, Captain, but it's the way it's gotta be. You see what Finn's become, but I remember him like he was before. Now, you want to see your missus or not?"

John nodded. "I want to see her."

As they approached Victoria's tent, the same skinny, ugly guard who had manhandled her last night stood up to block his way.

"Let him be, Jube," ordered Stacy.

Victoria ran out of the tent and into his arms, crying his name over and over. John pulled her into his embrace. "Victoria…"

After a moment, she pulled away from him, crying. She grasped his shirt collar in her hands and twisted it. "They killed Manolito," she sobbed.

"No, no," he hastened to reassure her. "He's hurt, but he's all right."

She gulped. "He's all right? Oh, dios mio," she said, hugging him again. "I watched them bring you in. I couldn't call to you. They said that…" She broke down, unable to continue. John held her close, fingers caressing her shoulders.

He looked over her shoulder at Stacy, standing barely three feet away. The guard was only a few feet away as well, staring at them. "Did Finn say anything against privacy, here?" he demanded.

Stacy nodded. "We'll be out of earshot. Let's go," he told the ugly guard, who clearly didn't want to miss anything.

Victoria caressed her husband's face. "You must hate me," she said tearfully.

It was the worst possible thing she could have said to him, bringing back all the guilt he'd ever felt about the first few months of their marriage. Bringing back every hurtful thing he'd ever said or did to her during those awful months. In spite of what she must have thought, he'd only ever come close to hating her once. Just one time, and that was for the unpardonable sin of loving him, and for making him come close to loving her long before he was ready. If they got out of this alive, he was going to find some way to make sure she never doubted his love for her again.

He looked deep into her eyes, the expression on his face never more earnest than it was now. "I never loved you more," he insisted. He embraced her again, pressing his dry, cracking lips against her cheek.

"I keep thinking it's all a nightmare and I'll wake up and we'll be back home. It's going to end for us here, up in this mountain."

"No," said John. "He gave me his word. No harm will come to you."

He hadn't meant to, but he'd put a slight emphasis on the word _you._ She caught the emphasis and took his meaning immediately. She twisted her hands in the collar of his shirt again, coming close to hysteria for the first time.

"But what touches you touches me!" cried Victoria. "If you die, I die!"

John's blood ran cold. He had to disabuse her of that notion immediately. She was a woman much given to drama, but she meant it. She would willingly die for him, just as he would die for her. But he wouldn't allow that to happen, no matter what.

"Don't you say that, don't you even think it," he told her. "I didn't crawl up this mountain on my belly to have that hate-twisted scut let the life out of me."

It was time to do something about making sure that didn't happen, or that Victoria wouldn't be around to witness it if it did. He turned away from her while she was still stroking his cheek, and walked away as she called his name.

He strode over to Carr's tent. "You! Carr."

Carr stepped out to greet him. "Come in, Captain Cannon." He stepped back and extended an arm in invitation.

John took one more look at Victoria before he stepped inside, committing her face to memory, just in case. She was gazing at him with her hands twisted in front of her mouth. "You let my wife go," he said as Carr closed the tent flap behind them. "I'll stay here and you can do what you want to, but you let her go, do you understand?"

Carr wasn't in a mood to listen to him, much less bargain. "You're in my command tent, Captain Cannon. I'll choose the subjects here. And the subject is Five Forks. The last real battle of the war. Petersburg, Virginia, April 1st, eighteen and sixty-five."

John turned away in disgust. "I've left that road behind me. I've buried my dead."

"And my honour, Captain," Carr spat back. "And with it my life. Now I want them back. I wanna see you run the way I did. I can't sting your nostrils with the stench of the dead, can't recall to your ears the screams of the wounded. But I can pin you down the way I was. I can run you ragged."

John shook his head. "You can't do much more to me than you've already done. I don't mean anything physical. I mean the agony of uncertainty about my wife."

His tormenter paid no attention to him. He was just staring blankly into space, caught up in his own memories and his twisted fantasies of revenge. "I'm gonna bend you, Captain. Then I'm gonna break you. If you don't run, then you and your wife can go on home. But if you do run, and you will, why … a dead man has no future. You're dismissed, Captain."

* * *

Without another word, John was marched out of the tent and locked into the cage once more. For the rest of that day and all of the following night he was left alone there, without food or water. He managed a few minutes of sleep from time to time, but inevitably they would come and wake him. He wasn't allowed even a glimpse of Victoria.

During that long, nightmarish day and night, he had far too much time to think. Too much time … and not enough ability. His physical state had begun to deteriorate to the point where it was affecting his mental faculties. He was able to understand that that was part of Carr's plan, though. If he was kept like this long enough, eventually he _would_ break. Anyone would. Enough of this and he would welcome death.

To keep his mind focussed, he watched every move that was made in the camp, trying to keep track of who was where. Stacy was by his brother's tent, Jube was guarding Victoria's, someone was digging a pit of some sort, and he'd heard that one had gone out yesterday and hadn't come back. So that left … five of them. No, four. No, wait, there had been four sets of tracks originally. He gave up trying to keep count; the mental arithmetic was proving to be beyond him right now.

If there was a man missing, with any luck maybe his men had him. He still couldn't understand why they hadn't shown up. Unless Carr's missing man had changed the trail markers that John had left or something like that. Perhaps Buck and the others were wandering lost in the mountains. Or maybe with any luck they were biding their time, watching the camp even now. As day wore on into night, however, it seemed less and less likely.

His mind dwelt on what was to become of Victoria.

Carr had given him his word that he wouldn't harm her as long as John didn't resist, but who knew if he could be trusted or not. Assuming that madman did keep his word, what would happen to her if Carr got what he wanted? The likelihood of that was increasing by the hour. Would she go home to her father if she were left a widow? Would she marry again? More to the point, would that father of hers find some other man to try and force a marriage with? If he'd done it once, he was more than capable of trying it a second time. Knowing Victoria, though, she might refuse outright, and then spend the rest of her life alone. After all, she'd refused several suitors before him. Now that she knew what marriage was all about, she might not want to settle.

John snorted at his own arrogance. Settle. Oh, yes, he'd been such an _ideal_ husband. So far, that dream of his that she'd admired so much had managed to get his first wife killed, and endangered his second wife countless times. What was it Don Sebastian had said to her, when he was trying to get her to come back with him? He didn't think he'd found her a husband who couldn't even protect her? Galling to realise he'd been right all along.

He thought about his ranch, too. What would happen to the High Chaparral? Blue wasn't ready to take on the responsibility. As much as he loved his son, John wasn't sure he'd be ready for a long, long time. He was young yet, barely twenty-one. An immature twenty-one at that. He needed time to grow up. He needed a steady hand to _help_ him grow up. Possibly he just needed a better father, but that couldn't be helped. Maybe he would—

John's head dropped onto his chest and he slept, until one of Carr's men noticed him and came to wake him once again.

* * *

The next day passed in a fog. He was taken out of the cage during the heat of the day and made to march with a heavy rock strapped to his back. Apparently Carr didn't think he was quite exhausted enough for his purposes.

He was allowed to see his wife once or twice, but not to hold her or talk to her. John was confined to the cage, while they forced Victoria to stay several yards away. He wondered if this was supposed to wear him down as well. After all, her presence gave him strength.

That night – the third night? he was losing count – he lost consciousness in fits and starts rather than slept. He didn't have the strength to try to lie down, just collapsed against the bars of the cage. Once Carr himself came over to wake him, shaking his shoulder with the hook.

"You're bone tired, aren't you, Captain?"

"Leave me alone," John mumbled exhaustedly. "Leave me alone." His throat was so dry he could barely manage to form the words. He made a feeble grab at the hook but Carr withdrew it.

"You're lucky, Captain. With me it was three days and three nights without sleep. That's the way it was in that Petersburg trench. You'll be in the trench tomorrow."

_Good,_ thought John. At least something would finally happen besides this slow campaign of attrition. He was ready to face whatever he had to, because at least it would be better than being locked up and starved, to die from dehydration.

He managed to get his addled brain to form a cohesive thought. It was harder to speak the words, but he forced them out somehow. "What are you gonna live on when you kill me? Who'll be your whipping boy? I've got you all figured out, Carr. Most men live on things they love, like a woman, the land, work, but not you. You live on hate. And if I don't know another thing about a man I can tell you this. It's himself he can't abide. Then he looks around for something to hate."

"You know what it's like to live with this?" asked Carr, sticking the hook back inside the prison. He held it against John's face threateningly, right up against his eye.

John pushed it away with an exhausted chuckle. "I've seen a lot of empty sleeves in my time, Carr. But you're the first steel hook. Why? Does it do something for you? Set you apart, is that it?"

"I'm gonna cut you up, Captain. I'm gonna make you beg me to kill you."

* * *

In the morning, Victoria was allowed out once more to see him. She fought against Carr's restraining arm, desperate to get to her husband. She knew this was to be the day. Knew it might be the last time she ever saw him alive.

Somehow, in spite of his overwhelming exhaustion, this gave John strength. He suddenly knew he wasn't going to let Carr win. He couldn't. He had to live for Victoria, and for Blue, and for Chaparral.

"I'm gonna kill you, Carr," he promised, his voice stronger in spite of the raspy, dry throat. "You hear that?"

He must have slept again after that. John awoke to hear voices near his cage. Carr, now dressed in his full Confederate uniform, was talking to one of his men about the fact that they were being watched from somewhere nearby. Buck and the men had finally arrived.

Carr gave the order to bring Victoria out and to put her in plain sight with a pistol to the back of her head. "I know you people are out there," he called. "One shot, one move, and John Cannon's wife is a part of the past. You people hear me? I mean it."

He turned to one of his men. "Bring out Captain Cannon," he ordered.

John staggered as he came out of the cage, but his mind was clear again. A little sleep had worked wonders.

He squinted in the direction Carr had been looking, trying to make out the shadowy forms of his men. He knew they daren't do anything right now, for fear of getting him and Victoria both killed, but at least they were there. That one little hope bolstered his resolve, gave him the strength to stand up and fight, to believe that they might have a chance after all. He only prayed that none of them jumped the gun or did anything else stupid.

Carr was busy setting the stage for his re-enactment. He picked up a sabre in his good right hand. Another lay on the ground in front of John. As he spoke, his face took on a faraway expression.

"It's April the first, '65. The dead and the dying are stretched out in front of you. Been waiting all night. The ground shakes under you – artillery shells rolling beneath you. You're pinned down, Captain. Artillery stops. You hear the sound of hoofbeats. Riding down on you! You see a sabre flash. You feel it bite into your arm."

John rolled his eyes in disgust at this self-indulgent nonsense. If the man wanted to kill him, he wished he would just get on with it.

Finally, Carr stopped his speech and looked at him. "Pick up the sabre, Captain Cannon. I was holding one that day."

John bent to pick up the sword from the ground.

Carr headed for his horse. He held out his hand to take the reins from his brother, but Stacy just dropped them and walked away. He stood at the edge of the camp with his back turned towards the combatants.

It made no difference to his older brother. He mounted his horse and made a preliminary run at John, who got set to defend himself. Their sabres clashed time and again as Carr made several passes. After a particularly vicious slash at him, John was knocked off his feet. He lay flat on his back for an instant. He was breathing hard, but he wasn't done. He heard Victoria crying his name.

Strangely enough, Carr seemed to have totally forgotten it. "Get on your feet, Captain Carr. You were on your feet."

John stared at him. It was if, in trying to reverse their roles in this macabre play-acting of his, he had somehow mentally reversed their identities as well.

"You're Carr," John reminded him. "Don't you remember? You're not trying to kill me, you're trying to kill yourself."

"Damn you, run!"

Carr rode down on him again and their sabres clashed once more. This time, though, John was able to successfully deflect his blow, sending Carr's sword spinning out of his hand and into the dirt. He turned the horse and came after him on the other side, his left arm extended all the way, trying to cut him with the hook. John slashed at him, but failed to make contact.

Once more Carr turned the horse for another run, hook extended. This time, though, John was ready for him. Sabre held in both hands, he brought it down hard on the wooden base of the hook, slicing it clean off.

Up on his horse, Carr looked down at the remains of his prosthetic, incredulous.

"Kill her!" he wailed. "Kill 'em both! Kill her."

As John looked on, horrified, Jube cocked his gun and aimed it squarely at Victoria's head. In the instant before he had a chance to complete his gruesome task, a shot rang out and he fell.

Stacy Carr stood motionless, smoke coming off the barrel of the gun he'd just fired.

Seeing their opportunity, John's men opened fire. Stacy ran to shield Victoria, while John jumped into the nearby trench. He held out his arms to lift Victoria down in there with him, ordering Stacy to join them. As the bullets flew all around them, John shielded his wife's body with his own.

A bullet from somewhere hit Carr in the chest, knocking him off his horse.

After that, the fight was over as quickly as it started. Buck and the boys swarmed into the campsite, subduing Carr's men, holding guns on them and checking inside the tent to make sure there were no others around.

In the trench, John comforted his sobbing wife. Holding her close to his chest he said, "There now, there."

In front of their amazed eyes, Carr, using the last bit of life left in him, belly-crawled across the dirt to get to his hook. He held the detached segment against the remaining stump of the wood base as if trying to connect the two halves together again. His head fell, and he died face down in the dirt.

Slowly, Stacy climbed up out of the trench and stood over the body of his brother with an expression of unbearable sadness. In spite of everything Finley Carr had done, John could find it in his heart to feel sympathy for Stacy's loss. He was a brother himself, after all. Buck hadn't always walked the straight and narrow, either, but he knew very well that if something were to ever happen to him, he'd never quite be the same again.

John stepped out of the trench and reached out a hand to help Victoria up. They stood, arms wrapped around each other, silently respecting the man's grief.

Eventually he looked up at them. "Finn was dying anyway, you know," he said, in a voice that was hollow and lifeless. "What the doc called an 'aneurysm' in his brain. The doctor said he could go anytime, if he strained himself."

"Was it because of…" John rubbed his finger across his left eye.

Stacy shrugged. "Might be. Might not be, either. Our pa had three strokes before the fourth one finally killed him. Could be it was a family thing. He wasn't always like this, though, Capta—Mr. Cannon. I just wanted …" Shaking his head, he slowly walked off in the direction of his brother's tent. In a moment he returned, carrying a thick woolen blanket which he used to cover the body.

Even if he had been physically up to the task, John wouldn't have offered to help Stacy heft Finn's body into the trench. Burying his dead was something the man clearly needed to do for himself.

* * *

John had wanted to get out of there just as soon as possible, no matter how much his family tried to argue him out of it. Just a little food and water, that's all he needed. Then he'd be able to make the trek down the mountain.

It was Buck, good ole sneaky Buck, who came up with the very reasonable plan of letting John nap in the tent for just a little while, just while they got their prisoners and everything ready to go. Wouldn't take more than a half hour, he'd said. Not more than an hour for sure. Clearly John's mind was still not functioning at full capacity after his ordeal, because it sounded like a fine idea. Never suspected a thing.

It was nearly dark when he woke up. Ah, of course. They'd tricked him. Well, that might not be such a bad thing. After sleep and food and water he felt restored enough to actually realise how bad he felt.

Victoria sat curled up on the ground next to his cot, head resting near his hand. For a long moment he lay there on his side, just watching her. All that time he'd doubted that he would ever wake up next to her again, but here she was. He had a strong sense of just how fortunate he was, not only because they were both still alive, but because she was a part of his life in the first place. Single-handedly, she had brought him through the worst experience of his life, an ordeal that made the last three days seem a picnic in comparison. And no matter how awful he had been to her, no matter how cruel or distant, she had somehow always emerged still thinking he was worth it. For whatever reason, he had a young woman who loved him more than anything in the world, certainly more than he deserved, and she was the greatest blessing a man could have.

John reached out and stroked her tangled hair. At his touch, she raised her head and blinked sleepily at him, then smiled and took his hand, holding it against her cheek.

"Are you feeling better, my husband?"

"Well enough," he said. "Victoria, what are you doing on the ground?"

She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "I was watching you sleep," she admitted.

He tried not to laugh, but he couldn't quite manage it. It was just such a completely _Victoria_ thing to say. Of course, he'd watched her often when he had a hard time sleeping, but he would never be caught dead admitting it. For just an instant she gave him an angry pout, but she quickly forgave him and started to laugh herself. She got to her knees and put her arms around his neck, and he pulled her up beside him. They sat hugging each other until Buck came up to ask if they wanted something to eat.

* * *

After a picnic supper of beans and salted beef – all the provision Carr's group had on hand – they retired to their tent for the night. One of the men had brought in a second cot from one of the other tents, which at least kept them from arguing about which of them was going to sleep on the ground.

Before they turned in for the night they sat together for awhile, John's arm around his wife's shoulders.

"John?" she said quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm very sorry for causing all of this."

John turned and grasped her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "Victoria," he said in a stern voice, "you caused _none_ of this. You heard what Stacy said. They'd been keeping watch on us for days. They would have grabbed you next time you stepped foot off the ranch no matter where you were going. I don't blame you for anything, you understand that?"

Victoria nodded, and he relaxed his grip on her. He said, "I do think I have the right to know what in the world you were doing sneaking off to church in the middle of a Tuesday morning for."

"I wanted to make a novena," she said. "A special prayer."

"That much I got from Vaquero." It never occurred to him that inquiring into the specifics of her prayers might not actually be any of his business.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "St. Rita and St. Anne have not answered my prayers so far. I was hoping to pray for intercession from the Virgin of Guadalupe."

"I, uh, don't know what that means."

"It means I have been praying for a child to bless our marriage. So far there is nothing. I hoped the Lady would take pity on me."

John was absolutely floored. He knew she wanted children, of course, but he'd had no idea of the urgency she was feeling. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he managed to find the words. "Well. I see. I think we have plenty of time yet," he pointed out. "After all, we've only been married a year and a bit. And you're not even thirty."

"I know that, but I will be soon. And I've been wanting this for such a long time, John. When you and I first married, I hoped for a baby to bring us closer together. And now that our marriage is for love and not for the sake of a political alliance, now I want a child even more, to make our happiness complete."

He found it hard to speak over the lump in his throat. "I'd like that," he told her. He patted her hand gently, and rubbed his thumb along the underside of her wrist. "I'd like that very much. Tell you what, Victoria. In a few days, once we get these prisoners taken care of, and see what shape the ranch is in after four days away, I'll take you to that church myself and you can make all the prayers and light all the candles you want. All right?"

Even in the dim light inside their tent he had no trouble making out the glow of happiness in her eyes. "Oh, yes, my husband," she said, pulling him into her embrace. "That would be wonderful!"

Later that night, he watched her sleeping form huddled on the cot on the other side of the tent. In spite of his exhausted condition, John couldn't manage to fall asleep very easily. He blamed the long sleep he'd had just a few hours earlier, but he knew it was more likely to do with the conversation he'd had with his wife.

He probably wouldn't be more than mildly disappointed if those prayers of hers went sadly unanswered, but he had to admit the idea of children was very appealing. Oh, it might be less than practical to start a second family at fifty, but John figured he had plenty of good years ahead of him. Another chance to be a father, to do it right this time. He couldn't stop picturing the ranch house with several black-haired Cannon children running around. Boys who would grow up to help Blue run the whole Chaparral empire their father left them, girls who would have all their mother's beauty and fire, every last one of them proof positive that this ill-advised second marriage he'd been conned into was the best bad choice any man had ever made.

He didn't – couldn't – know what the future would hold for them; whether or not there would be children, or whether the High Chaparral would bring them poverty or prosperity. But he did know that as long as he had Victoria at his side, he could just about handle anything.

_The End_


End file.
